Seachange
by the local knicker merchant
Summary: It's June 2017 and Nick has run away from his life in Weatherfield. Believing Nick to be with Carla in Devon, Leanne travels to the West Country, Peter Barlow in tow, to confront her. This brief meeting between Carla and Peter lights a spark that is set to reignite Carter once more.
1. Chapter 1: Manhunt

**Chapter 1: Manhunt**

Carla couldn't ignore the relentless banging any longer. She took a deep breath and opened her front door, ready for the expected onslaught.

"Where is he?"

Leanne didn't have time for the usual civilities, especially with Carla, the woman who she still hated with a passion, even after all these years.

"Hello, Leanne. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't play little miss innocent with me, it doesn't suit you. Nick. I'm talking about Nick."

"And why would Nick be here? We split up, remember? He hates me."

"Yeah, well, he's not thinking straight at the moment."

"Oh, yeah? Why's that then?"

"None of your business."

"Oh, do one, Leanne, he's not here."

"He has to be here."

"Why?"

Leanne was suddenly sheepish.

"Well, I logged onto his internet banking and he's been making withdrawals in the area."

"This place is a magnet for tourists, Leanne. Maybe he just wanted a holiday. Living with you, I can't say I blame him."

"I'm warning you, you tell me where he is, right now."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll –"

"Leanne! What the hell are you playing at, leaving me on the side of the road like that?"

Peter jogged breathlessly towards Leanne and Carla.

"I was in a hurry, wasn't I. Besides, I was sick of stopping for you and your smoke breaks."

Peter was suddenly aware of Carla's presence.

"Oh, hi Carla."

"Peter."

Carla and Peter could do nothing for what seemed like an age but stare into each other's eyes.

Leanne took the opportunity to barge past Carla and into the house.

"Hey! What are you doing? I didn't invite you in, so… ugh!"

But Leanne was in, despite Carla's protests.

"You better come in and all."

Carla ushered Peter inside and soon the unlikely threesome was sat awkwardly in Carla's living room.

"I dunno what to tell you, Leanne. My answer's still the same; I don't know where Nick is."

Peter tried to reason with Carla.

"Carla, this is important, if you know where he is –"

"For god's sake, I don't know! What is it gonna take for you to believe me? Do you wanna search the house or something?"

"I don't think –"

"Hold on, Peter, I think that's a good idea."

"Give me strength. I don't have time for this. You need to go."

"We're not leaving until you give me some answers."

"I need to go to work, so…"

"Fine. We'll wait here."

"You're not –"

"Work?" Peter was curious. "It's a bit late for work, isn't it? I mean, I know you were never a morning person, but this is a bit extreme don't you think?"

"I own a restaurant. I've got to get in for dinner service."

"A restaurant?" Leanne had an idea. "Book us a table then. Then we can talk after."

"Actually, I could do with a feed." Peter's thoughts easily turned to his next meal.

Carla laughed.

"Nice idea, but we're booked solid for the next six weeks."

"Really? Six weeks?" Peter looked proudly at Carla.

"Back to Plan A then. Me and Peter will wait here. Face it, Carla, I'm not leaving until I've spoken to you properly. I know you know something."

Carla sat and thought for a moment; there was no way she was going to let Peter and Leanne of all people stay unaccompanied in her home.

"Fine. You can come to the restaurant. You'll have to sit at the chef's table though."

* * *

Even though Carla wished that Leanne and Peter hadn't shown up on her front doorstep that day and forced themselves onto her routine, she couldn't help but be proud as she ushered them into her restaurant.

Perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, the restaurant dining room consisted of a long, narrow space with a huge glass window down one side that provided guests with spectacular views of the water. At this time of the year, with daylight savings in effect, this generally included a breathtaking sunset.

Wash facilities, staff locker room, the office and the kitchen occupied the town-side of the building. At the rear of the dining room was a pair of French doors opening onto a winding path that led down to a sheltered terrace cut into the cliff-face.

"Wow." Peter stopped to stare at the view.

"Make the most of it while you can."

"Hey?"

"All the tables were booked, so you're at the chef's table in the kitchen. With no view. But you get to see chef at work which apparently interests a lot of people."

"Foodies," Leanne was scathing.

Carla ignored Leanne and led them into the large kitchen where a team of chefs was busy preparing that evening's mise en place.

"Evening boss." A general chorus of greeting as Carla entered the kitchen.

"Evening all."

"Chef," Carla addressed her head chef, motioning towards Peter and Leanne. "I've got a couple of friends in at the chef's table tonight, okay?"

"Right," Chef barely looked up from the fish he was filleting with speed and precision. "Welcome."

"That's my head chef, Brendan. He is a genius in the kitchen."

Carla showed them to an alcove at the side of the kitchen where a long dining table provided a view of the goings on in the kitchen. A window overlooked a kitchen garden where various vegetables and herbs were growing.

Leanne and Peter sat down at the table, while Carla furnished them with the requisite linens, cutlery and glasses.

Finally, she handed them each the evening's menu. Printed in simple type onto quality off-white heavy gauge paper, the 12-course degustation menu provided diners with mere clues, giving only hints at the culinary delights to come.

Peter read the menu eagerly:

Shaved fennel and mustard

Oysters with champagne sorbet

Kingfish ceviche with finger lime

Roasted baby beets with smoked goats cheese

Artichoke soup with seared scallops

Moules frites

Turkish-style fish sandwich (served on the terrace)

Squid ink capellini with butter-poached crab

Braised beef ribs with black vinegar and radish

Salted toffee apple

Strawberries and cream

Cheese and crackers

Peter looked with excitement up at Carla.

"I can't wait. I mean, these dishes, some of them sound quite simple, but this place, it looks fine dining, so there must be a twist, right?"

"You'll have to wait and see."

But Leanne was harder to please.

"Well, I think all this degustation stuff is pretentious. Give me a proper meal any day of the week. Meat, three veg, serve it up on one plate, and I'm happy. Saves on the washing up as well."

Carla ignored Leanne's baiting, she was used to her former love-rivals attitude.

"I need to see to the dining room so I'll send a waiter in to talk you through the drink pairings we offer. We've got both alcoholic and non-alcoholic pairings, so…"

"Thanks." Peter was grateful for the explanation; Leanne merely shot Carla a dirty look, she still blamed Carla for Peter falling off the wagon many times in the past.

"Okay, enjoy."

* * *

Leanne and Peter had eaten their way through the first six courses before Carla found the time to stop by their table.

"How's it going?"

"I have no words. It's all so delicious."

"Any favourites?"

"Oh, that's a tough one. Umm, probably the kingfish."

"I'm not a fan of raw fish myself," Leanne piped up.

"It's not really raw though, is it?" Carla enjoyed challenging Leanne. "I mean, the fish is… 'cooked' for want of a better word, by the acid in the citrus."

"Whatever."

"Well I thought it was perfection."

"I'm glad. It's one of my favourites as well."

Carla and Peter grinned at each other for a moment.

"What does 'served on the terrace' mean?"

"Sorry?" Carla turned to Leanne who was studying the menu.

"The next course, it says 'served on the terrace'."

"Right. That's actually why I'm here, to escort you to the terrace."

Peter and Leanne followed Carla as she led them through the restaurant, out the rear French doors and along the winding path until they emerged onto an open-air terrace carved into the cliff below the restaurant. A number of high tables with stools were dotted at intervals along the balcony railing; each table sported short, squat white candles that flickered hypnotically in the growing darkness. Strings of fairy lights festooned the length of the terrace and added to the magical atmosphere.

At the far end of the terrace was a chef's station where one of Carla's chefs was grilling fish to order. The fish was served in warm bread rolls and then drizzled with a decadent lemon butter dressing before being presented to diners.

Soon Peter and Leanne were digging into their fish sandwiches and listening to Carla as she talked about the concept of her restaurant.

"We're constantly rotating the menu, depending on what's in season, what's good, what's local is also very important to us. Out here on the terrace, we try to serve something that guests can eat with their hands if they want."

Peter gazed in awe at Carla as she spoke so passionately about food; especially since she'd never been that talented at preparing it herself.

"After I hired Brendan, we did a bit of a culinary tour of Europe. I remember in Istanbul, the fishing boats would pull up onto the banks of the Bosphorus in the middle of the city and unload their catch. Then they would take the fish, gut it, scale it, fillet it on the spot and just whack it onto a grill right there in the open. Then they'd serve it in the softest, the most delicious white bread roll you've ever tasted. A wedge of lemon squeezed on top. Oh, it was heaven."

"This place, it's more than just food. It's about the memories, the experiences, the feelings that food evokes in people. I want our guests to have those same kinds of experiences with our food. And it's not just about the food, it's about how we make them feel with our service. That's one of the reasons why I decided to do only one sitting each night. I don't want anyone to feel like they're being rushed through their meal. I want them to savour it."

"I remember you always hated being rushed in a restaurant."

"There's nothing worse than a hovering waiter and seeing people milling around the entrance waiting for you to finish shovelling food in your gob so they can have a feed."

"But doesn't only one sitting eat into your profits?"

"Not at the prices we charge," Carla grinned. "Seriously, I'll admit it's not cheap, but I really believe the experience is worth the money. And our bookings, well, they kinda prove it."

"It's just food at the end of the day."

"Oh, come on, Lee," Peter was quick to jump to Carla's defence. "You have to admit what we've eaten tonight has been pretty spectacular."

"Yeah, maybe," even this forced acknowledgement from Leanne felt like an insult.

* * *

Later that evening, after all the diners had left and Carla's staff were busy with their nightly cleaning routine, Carla prepared to bid farewell to her unexpected guests.

"So…"

The sound of a ringing mobile phone interrupted Carla.

"Sorry."

Leanne dug her phone out of her handbag.

"Hello?" Leanne answered her phone. "Eva, hi."

Leanne walked away from Carla and Peter to take the call from Eva in peace.

Carla and Peter stood in awkward silence until inspiration hit Carla.

"Hey, come with me."

"Where…?"

"Hurry, while she's still on the phone."

Peter grinned a wicked grin as he followed Carla out the front door of the restaurant and into the dark night.

"Where are we going?"

Carla grabbed Peter's hand and dragged him towards a nearby wooden staircase that lead down to the beach below.

"Where are we –?"

"No questions. Come on!"

Peter smiled and followed Carla down the steps.

After a breathless climb down what seemed like a multitude of steps, Carla and Peter stood alone on the beach, lit only by the moon, with the sound of the water gently lapping at the sand their only company.

Carla couldn't help but smile at Peter; this almost felt like old times.

"Carla, this place, your restaurant… it's amazing. You should be so proud."

"Thanks. I am."

"I'm kinda surprised though."

"What do ya mean?"

"I mean, the woman who heats up pizza with the plastic cover still on running a fancy restaurant?"

"Ha ha, very funny. It's not like I'm doing the cooking though, is it? And, ya know, after everything that happened back in Weatherfield, I guess I wanted a complete change, a new direction."

"Well, whatever you're doing, it's working for you."

Peter looked intensely at Carla; she held his gaze. They each took a step closer to the other.

"I was wondering where you got to. It's time we got going. Nick's obviously not here, I mean, why would he be, and I'm not wasting any more time on her."

Peter took one last look at Carla before turning to face Leanne who was marching across the sand towards the pair.

"Lee, it's late, let's book into a hotel and go home in the morning."

"Oh, come on, Peter, you love driving through the night. Besides, I need to get back to Oliver."

Peter glanced back at Carla.

"Peter," Leanne was insistent.

"Okay, yeah, we'll go now."

Peter turned to Carla regretfully.

"Thanks for, umm, dinner and all."

"My pleasure."

"I'll see ya then."

"Not if I see you first."

* * *

Carla pulled the car into the driveway of her cottage, located ten minutes' drive outside town, the car tyres squelching loudly over the crushed limestone. She turned off the ignition and sat in silence for a few moments, trying to gather her thoughts and sort her feelings after a tumultuous day.

Eventually, Carla got out of her car and entered her house. Shutting the front door behind her, she leaned against the solid wood, shut her eyes wearily and sighed.

"Well?"

Carla opened her eyes slowly and fixed them on the man stood facing her in the dark.

"Relax, Nick, they're gone."

* * *

Carla poured two neat whisky's, handed one to Nick and sat down opposite him at her kitchen table. She wasn't in the right frame of mind to deal with Nick's neuroses right now; her head was too full of the stresses of the day; hiding Nick, dealing with Leanne's attitude, and most of all struggling to understand what was happening to her body every time she clapped eyes on Peter. The way her heart would beat faster, her stomach would flip, and her mouth would turn up at the corners into a smile, no matter how hard she tried to frown.

But she knew that putting Nick off until tomorrow wasn't going to make things any better. She needed to resolve things with him now; then they could both move on.

"So, what are you gonna do? Go back to her?"

"No, I can't."

They each sipped their whisky.

"Now that I've had time to really think about it, me and Leanne… she was a rebound. But then the whole baby situation took over, it got out of control and I couldn't stop it. I couldn't get out anymore, I was trapped… Do you ever wonder what would've happened if I hadn't got back with Leanne, if I'd followed you down here instead?"

"I used to. But you didn't, Nick, you made your choice."

"Is it too late to change my mind?"

Carla hesitated. A year ago, even a few months, weeks, she would have given anything to hear those words come out of Nick's mouth. But now…? She wondered what had changed. Time, she guessed. She wasn't prepared to admit that the sudden reappearance of Peter Barlow in her life had anything to do with it. She was too stubborn for that. For now, she voiced the only thing she was sure of.

"Yeah, it is."

"Right."

"I think it's time that you moved on, don't you?"

"I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go."

"Go wherever you want. _You_, Nick. Not me, not Leanne. _You_. Besides, I don't think where you go is what's important right now."

"What do you mean?"

"How long've we known each other?"

"Six? Seven years?"

"During that whole time, I've watched you bounce from one woman to the next with barely a chance to catch your breath in-between. So, why don't you maybe take some time to be by yourself. Get reacquainted with Nick."

"Thing is, I'm not sure who Nick is anymore. What if I don't like him?"

"It's really not so scary being on your own."

* * *

The next morning, Carla watched Nick drive away from what was supposed to be their home together with bittersweet feelings. The plans they'd had, the dreams, they were all gone. Carla would never regret their relationship; for a while Nick was exactly what she'd needed. She hoped she had been what he'd needed as well. But that was then. That was over. Now she needed to figure out what she needed in her future. And, as much as she tried to put him out of her mind, she couldn't help but think of that lying, cheating ex-husband of hers.

Carla shook her head and sighed before turning and walking into her home, her oasis from the storms of life.

"One day, Peter Barlow. One day."


	2. Chapter 2: Midnight phone calls

**Chapter 2: Midnight phone calls**

Carla inspected the entrée platters that were lined up on the serving pass; she wanted to make sure everything was perfect before the guests were served.

She ran her eye over the two types of platters that had been chosen for the event: fresh crisp crudités served with three dips – roasted beetroot and Persian feta, spinach and cashew pesto, and creamy artichoke and parmesan – and decadent seafood platters, piled high with freshly shucked oysters, butterflied and flame-grilled prawns, seared scallops on the half shell, smoked mussels, goujons of sea bass wrapped in banana leaf and chargrilled on the terrace barbeque, fresh sardines, lightly crumbed and fried, lime and black pepper baby squid, crab claws with their sweet delicate meat ready to be sucked from the bright orange shell, and butter-poached lobster medallions, all served with plenty of lemon wedges, chef's special tartare sauce, and a lively mango salsa.

Carla turned to her serving staff, lined up in a row and waiting to carry the platters out to the restaurant dining room.

"Go on, they're good."

One-by-one the waiters each picked up a platter and made their way through the kitchen doors. Carla turned to the kitchen where the chefs were now busy with the main course.

"Nice work, chef."

Brendan looked up from the red wine jus he was perfecting for the roasted beef fillet main and nodded his acknowledgement to Carla.

"Carla, phone call."

Carla turned to see one of her senior waiters and good friend, Bella, striding towards her, office phone in her hand.

"Who is it?"

"Dunno, he didn't say."

"Thanks," as she took the phone from Bella's hand.

"Carla Connor."

Carla couldn't tell if there was no one on the line or if the noise of the busy kitchen was drowning out the caller's voice. She quickly opened the door that lead from the kitchen to the kitchen garden and stepped into the peace that nature brought, shutting the door behind her.

The garden wasn't merely rows of vegetables in structured and ordered garden beds. Carla had handed over the design of the garden to Brendan who had determined to base it on the principles of permaculture. The result was a glorious and wild intermingling of plants, with individual plants thoughtfully located depending on their ideal companion plants, whether that be a taller sun-loving plant that would protect a shade-loving plant from the sun, or a plant that would act as a natural insect-repellent or nutrient source for its companion.

Now in the quietude of the garden, the clamour of the kitchen muffled through the glass door, Carla spoke again.

"Hello? … Is anyone there?"

"Carla?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"It's me. It's Peter."

Now it was Carla's turn to be silent. Why was Peter calling her? Why now? It had been six weeks since he and Leanne had turned up unforeseen on her doorstep. If he had been going to call, Carla would have expected it to be much sooner. Not that she was expecting him to call. She silently berated herself, wishing she hadn't thought about this moment countless times in the previous six weeks, that he didn't still have this kind of power over her thoughts. Most of all she wished that she could just forget him.

"What do you want?" Carla's tone was harsher than she had meant it to be.

"I just wanted to…" Peter faltered; he hadn't known what to expect, but outright hostility was not it.

"Peter, is this important?"

Peter was immediately defensive.

"Well, I'm sorry if I'm not important enough for you –"

"Don't be like that, Peter. What I meant was, is this an emergency? Because I'm in the middle of a function here at the restaurant."

"Oh. Sorry, no, it's not an emergency. Umm… Look, why don't you call me when you're done?"

"It'll be late."

"Doesn't matter, I'll be up."

"Okay. Well, talk later I guess."

* * *

Carla stood at the back of the restaurant dining room as all eyes were focused on the other end of the room where a man dressed in a smart black suit stood microphone in hand mid-speech. Behind him was an opulent wall of flowers, thousands of them in shades of cream and pale pink. Despite the assembled guests, it was obvious to everyone in the room that the man had eyes for no one except the woman dressed in the elegant strapless gown, cream lace over blush pink satin, her hair styled in an intricate yet loose braid hanging amongst soft waves down her back and dotted with delicate white flowers, with a beaming smile spread across her face.

"How long d'ya give 'em?"

Carla turned to grin at Bella.

"They seem very much in love," Carla whispered back in hope if not certainty.

"Non-committal. You shoulda been a politician."

"You know what? It doesn't matter how many pretty speeches people make, or how gushingly they declare their love. Truth is, you never know what's really going on in a relationship. Sometimes not even if you're the one in the relationship."

"You talking from experience?"

Carla merely grunted a short laugh.

"Come on, Carla, you know you never answered my question from months ago."

"What was that?"

"Whether you'd been married before… Well?"

"Four times."

"Four?" Bella stood with mouth gaping open in surprise.

"Turns out I'm not very good at marriage."

The guests applauded; the groom had finished his speech.

"It's time for the cake. Go on."

Bella wanted to grill Carla on her four weddings but decided it was a better career move to follow her boss's orders instead.

Moments later, Bella assisted another waiter in carrying out the wedding cake to a chorus of oohs and aahs from the guests. A simple cake of delicate vanilla sponge layered to an impressive height with creamy passionfruit buttercream frosting had been turned into a work of art thanks to the many hours of labour Carla's pastry chef had put in the day before creating intricate sugar flowers, again in shades of cream and pale pink, that had been piled high on top of the cake and cascaded down one side.

Carla left them to it, heading back to her office where she could be assured of a few moments respite to reflect on those four weddings that Bella had brought to the forefront of her mind.

But the serenity she was hoping to find remained elusive; everything that had gone wrong with each of her four marriages kept spinning around her mind, raising even more questions, more doubts, more regrets.

Carla sighed and stood up from her chair. There was no use in torturing herself with the past. The wedding would soon be over and Carla wanted the clean-up to be done and dusted as quickly as possible. She pushed from her mind the niggling thought that this was so she could talk to Peter sooner. No, she would call him, hear what he had to say for himself and then that would be it. Done. They wouldn't need to have any more contact with each other. Never again.

* * *

"Drive safely. I'll see you tomorrow."

Carla watched as the last of her staff got into their cars and drove away, leaving the restaurant carpark dark and empty. Carla shivered as she walked back inside the restaurant, locking the door behind her. She would have to stop by her office for a jumper before she went out.

From behind the bar, Carla retrieved a bottle of wine and a wine glass; from her office she retrieved a jumper, which she hastily pulled on over the extra-smart outfit she saved for when the restaurant was hosting a wedding, her mobile phone and a battery-powered lantern.

Slipping quietly through the rear French doors of the dining room, Carla carefully made her way down the winding path to the cliff-terrace, the lantern her only source of light.

After placing the wine, wine glass, phone and lantern down on one of the tables and perching on a nearby stool, Carla was inspired to turn off the lantern. The terrace was plunged into total darkness; all was black. But her eyes gradually became accustomed to the night and she was soon able to make out shapes and movement by the light of the moon; the rocky outcrops of the cliffs, the peaks of the waves that seemed to almost glitter as they moved rhythmically across the surface of the sea.

Then there was the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore, the wind as it rustled over the hardy vegetation that somehow managed to survive the brutal conditions on the top of the cliffs and, in the distance, the sounds of fishermen even at this early hour preparing their boats for the morning's fishing expedition.

Carla touched the screen of her phone and checked the time as it briefly lit up: 2am. He said he'd be up, but this late? Carla had second thoughts about calling, surely it was presumptuous to think he'd wait up this late for her. But something deep inside of her told her that he would wait for her; he'd always wait for her.

* * *

450 miles away in the booth of an empty back street boozer, Peter Barlow sat in the dark, anxiously staring at his phone on the table in front of him. Wanting to pass the time, Peter picked up the phone, opened the internet app and typed in the web address of Carla's restaurant. He didn't have to search for it, he knew it off by heart. He'd be ashamed to admit to anyone the amount of times he'd visited the site in the past six weeks.

Peter quickly navigated to the "About" page and zoomed in on the picture of Carla positioned next to the paragraph that talked about the restaurant's owner/manager. He stared at the picture for a long time, too long for a man who had a partner who was at that moment upstairs asleep in their bed.

Suddenly the phone began vibrating (he'd had the sense to silence the ringtone) and flashing Carla's name on the screen.

Peter hesitated before answering; he was nervous. What would she think about him contacting her? Would she think him impertinent? Forward?

Still the phone rang; he would have to answer before it rang out. So he snatched up the phone and quickly pressed the green icon to accept the call.

"Hey Carla."

"Hey yourself, I almost gave up on you. Thought it might be too late and you'd gone to bed."

"I said I'd wait for you, and I have."

"So…?"

"How was the function?"

"It was very, umm, successful."

"What was it?"

"A wedding."

"Oh."

Immediately and separately, each was reminded of their own wedding. The fourth of December twenty-thirteen. Almost five years ago. Carla remembered how happy she'd been that day, married to the man she adored above anyone she'd ever met. Peter remembered how he'd ruined everything that day, how he finally had everything he ever wanted only to throw it all away.

"Are you home now?"

"You remember the terrace at the restaurant?"

"Yeah, of course. I remember it was spectacular, the way it was cut into the cliff."

"Well, that's where I am right now, glass of wine in my hand, sitting in the dark, the wildness of the cliffs and the water all around me."

"Sounds magical."

"It really is."

Peter laughed.

"What?"

"You. Living there, it's… I never imagined you living anywhere but the city."

"Yeah well, people change. Priorities change. What about you though? By rights you're the one that should be living this life."

"If only. That life, by the sea, on the sea, it all seems like a distant memory."

They both reflected momentarily on life's surprising changes in a companionable silence.

"Do you ever get out on the water? Sailing or summat?"

"I wish. The closest I get to a boat these days is when Brendan drags me down the fish market in the early hours to buy supplies for the restaurant."

"Brendan, that's your chef, right?"

"Head chef, yeah."

"You two seem close?"

"We are."

"Are you two, umm…?"

"What?"

"Umm… you know… involved?"

Carla laughed. "You mean romantically involved?"

"Well, yeah."

"I think his boyfriend might have something to say about that."

"Oh," Peter was relieved that Carla couldn't see the grin that had spontaneously spread across his face when he learned of Brendan's boyfriend.

Carla was quick to change the subject, eager to steer the conversation away from her love life.

"No, I don't think I've been sailing properly since we went to the Caribbean."

"Five years ago."

"Time flies, ey?"

"You know, Carla, that was the happiest time of my life, sailing round the Caribbean with you."

"Don't let Toyah hear you say that."

There was a sudden awkward silence on the line; a silence Carla was not going to put up with.

"Come on, Peter. Do you really expect me to ignore your situation?"

"Situation? Is that what it's called? I guess not. Look, I'm sorry I got weird. It's a little bit awkward that's all."

"But why? It's been nearly four years since we split. For god's sake, I've been married to someone else since then."

"Speaking of which…"

"Here we go."

"What exactly was it that attracted you to Nick Tilsley of all people? I just, I can't see it."

"Honestly?"

"Please."

"He was the opposite of you."

"And that was a good thing, was it?"

"That was a fantastic thing."

"I asked for that, didn't I?"

"Yes. Listen, Peter, if we're gonna be doing this whole phone chat thing, I think we should lay down some ground rules and agree to steer clear of any talk of partners, or ex-partners, or future partners."

"What do you mean, this whole phone chat thing? Are you saying you wanna do this again?"

"I was just, I dunno, talking generally."

"Right."

"Why, do you?"

Peter paused before answering; he was terrified of saying the wrong thing and spoiling what was rapidly becoming dear to him.

"I do."

It was Carla's turn to grin now.

"Okay then."

"Okay."

Neither knew what they'd just agreed to, but they both knew that they didn't want this to be their only late-night conversation.

* * *

Despite the late hour, Peter had needed a smoke in the back yard to regain his composure before he felt ready to go up to bed.

He stared down at a sleeping Toyah, illuminated by the soft moonlight, before climbing into bed and lying down, his back to her. The movement nudged Toyah into a half-awake state; she sleepily wrapped her arms around Peter, snuggled in close behind him and immediately drifted back to sleep.

As for Peter himself, he remained wide awake, doubting his ability to sleep at all that night. A myriad of thoughts raced through his head; thoughts of Toyah, their plans and their future; and thoughts of Carla, their past and, no matter how hard he tried to stop them, thoughts of their future.

As his thoughts finally quietened down, they became focused solely on one thing; that one thing 450 miles away. He wondered what she was doing right now.

* * *

Carla stood in the dark looking through one of her bedroom windows; she was wrapped in a flowing kimono-style dressing gown in a pale silky fabric, her face washed clean, and her hair brushed smooth and hanging softly over her shoulders and down her back.

She usually preferred to look through the window that afforded glimpses of the water beyond the fields surrounding her cottage, but tonight she gazed out of the window that looked to the north, to her former home 450 miles away, to the current home of the man she'd just spent almost three hours talking to.

She was both excited and terrified at the prospect of what was to come. More phone calls at the very least. But what else? It had all come so easy tonight, the conversation, the companionship; everything that had made her fall in love with him in the first place.

But that couldn't happen this time. She had to keep reminding herself that Peter wasn't free for her to love anymore. There had been a time when that wouldn't have stopped her; she would have pushed and pushed until she got what she wanted. But since Tina… She wouldn't be that kind of woman again. She refused.

So why was she still stood there as the sun was slowly peeking over the horizon and gently bathing the world in a warm glow with tears silently falling down her cheeks at the thought of once again becoming close to her ex-husband, love of her life? But she couldn't answer that question just yet; the answer was too terrifying for her to contemplate.


	3. Chapter 3: Playing with fire

**Chapter 3: Playing with fire**

Carla sat at her desk; here in her office all was calm, while outside the restaurant was gearing up for a busy Saturday night service. She sorted through suppliers' invoices, keen to get them approved and paid before she was needed in the dining room.

Her eyes couldn't help but wander to the armchair in the corner of her office where a calico bag full of supplies was waiting for her. She smiled to herself as she mentally checked off the contents: jumper, scarf, lantern, bottle of wine, wine glass, mobile phone, ear pods. Everything she needed for her late-night phone conversation with Peter; an event that had become a daily occurrence since that first unexpected phone call seven nights previous.

Carla's smile widened into what could only be described as a daft grin as she thought back over those phone calls. Every night after all the diners had gone home, the restaurant had been cleaned, her staff farewelled, and the front door locked, Carla would make her way down to the cliff terrace, pour herself a glass of wine, and call Peter.

Those calls would last hours, and even hours after the calls had ended, Carla would lie awake in her bed reliving everything they'd talked about, everything they hadn't talked about, the laughs they'd shared, the silences.

Carla knew she was playing with fire, that she was leaving her heart unguarded. But she continued to push those encroaching thoughts of Peter's past betrayals and his current relationship with another woman to the back of her mind. Instead she allowed herself to dwell on the way Peter made her feel, the memories of their good times together, the knowledge that, no matter what happened, or how much either of them moved on with new lives and new loves, he would always be the one true love of her life.

Yes, she was successful. Her restaurant was rapidly climbing the lists of the best fine dining establishments in the south-west, in England even. But she couldn't deny that she was lonely. She missed Peter; the way they just seemed to fit together, despite their lack of common interests. She missed his touch, the way he felt against her skin, his lips on her lips. Hell, she even missed their fights, and boy had there been plenty of those.

Carla knew she shouldn't be having those late-night conversations with Peter. She knew it was wrong; knew it was wrong to be looking forward to them; wrong to be replaying them in her mind. But she couldn't give them up; she wouldn't.

Carla sighed and wrenched her mind back to the task at hand. She forced herself to focus on the figures in front of her, checking them off against delivery dockets, written quotes, and supply contracts before turning to her laptop and transferring payments out of the business bank account.

She looked at her watch; there was still thirty minutes until the restaurant doors were due to open. So she set out on what had become a nightly ritual not long after the restaurant had first opened. She left her office, wandered down the hall and into the kitchen where Brendan had been expecting her. He nodded at a plate of food that was being kept warm under lights on the pass.

"Thanks, chef."

Soon Carla was sat at the chef's table in the alcove, tucking into her dinner of salt-baked salmon, fennel puree and herbed new potatoes. Never one to waste any spare time, Carla spent her dinner break emailing a local builder about renovation plans she had in mind, to turn what was currently a tatty storage room into an opulent private dining room.

* * *

After another successful dinner service, thanks in no small part to Carla's hiring practices of head-hunting only the best chefs and the best wait staff that lived up to her and her guests' high expectations, Carla hurried down to the cliff terrace, eager to once again hear Peter's voice.

She poured herself a glass of wine and quickly drank almost half of it before she felt ready to place the call. She had no idea why she felt nervous at the thought of calling Peter, but the butterflies that began to dance around her stomach as she walked down that winding path every night made her feel like a teenager again.

She placed her ear pods in her ears and dialled Peter's number.

It began to ring. It kept on ringing. But Peter didn't answer.

The unexpected and extremely unwelcome thought that Peter might not answer her call was like a knife to Carla's heart. All sorts of theories as to why he wasn't answering suddenly flooded her mind. Had something happened? Had he lost his phone? Was he sick? Injured? Had Toyah found out? Had Peter changed his mind?

Carla began to panic; she wasn't prepared for this. She hadn't realised just how much and how quickly she'd come to rely on those nightly phone calls. The fear that they might suddenly be over filled her with dread. After that first night, Peter had always answered her call within a ring or two. Carla liked to imagine him in his own private spot, a special spot he reserved only for her, waiting for her to call. But now, not only wasn't he answering her call straight away, he wasn't answering at all. After hanging up and redialling three times, Carla was sure of it; Peter was avoiding her.

Unsure of what to do, Carla did the only thing she could think of, the thing she usually did. She poured herself another glass of wine and gulped it down. The burn in her throat was a welcome distraction to the tears that were welling in her eyes. She blinked them away furiously and poured another glass.

* * *

Carla staggered a little as she stepped through the French doors and into the dark and deserted dining room. She made a beeline for the bar and was on the verge of opening a fresh bottle of wine when she heard a banging on the front door.

She froze, listening, her every nerve on edge.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

She hadn't been imagining it. Probably one of her staff retrieving a bag or a phone or something. But then another thought occurred to Carla and refused to budge. Memories of the night Nick's Bistro was robbed and she ended up needing emergency surgery flashed through her mind.

She picked up the empty wine bottle by its neck and swung it a few times in the air, testing its suitability as a weapon. Satisfied, Carla crept through the shadows to the front door of the dining room. She opened it a crack and looked into the restaurant's entry foyer and beyond through the glass entry door to where a man stood, his back to the door, and a mobile phone held to his ear.

Carla's heart raced; she berated herself for leaving her mobile phone behind the bar and had just determined to go back and fetch it, when the man turned around.

Carla screamed and dropped the wine bottle. Then she laughed; a raucous laugh, bordering on hysteria at the relief that had coursed through her body the moment she had recognised the man.

She strode to the door and, quickly unlocking and opening it, ushered the man inside.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked with a grin on his face, surveying the fragments of glass scattered over the floor.

"What am I doing? What are you doing? Here? Now? I've been trying to call you."

"Sorry, I was driving."

"Driving where?"

"Here."

Carla stared at Peter, the bottle of wine she'd just consumed impairing her ability to grasp with any clarity what Peter was saying.

"Here?"

"As you can see. Here. Are you alright?"

"I'm a little drunk is all. Why are you here, Peter?"

"Oh. Well, umm… I'm on my way to visit an old navy pal."

"In the middle of the night?"

"I thought I'd drop in, say hello on my way through."

"Through? There is no through, Peter. There's nowhere to go from here. Unless he lives in the ocean of course."

Peter laughed, a guilty laugh.

"I might've taken a small detour."

Carla simply raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

"So, I wanted to see you. Is that a crime?"

Carla looked at Peter curiously. She knew he wasn't being completely honest with her, but she decided that, for now, she didn't care. For now, she was simply happy to see him.

"No, it's not a crime."

Carla bent down and started to pick up pieces of broken glass.

"Come on then, help me clear this up."

Peter crouched down next to Carla. He looked at her and grinned; she couldn't help but grin back.

* * *

"Don't try and pretend you didn't plan this all along."

Carla climbed the staircase in her cottage with Peter following close behind.

"It does sound like something I would do."

Carla merely laughed at Peter.

"I know, I know how it looks. But, honestly, I didn't think about where I was gonna stay the night."

"Hmmm…"

Carla stopped on the upstairs landing, opened a door and reached inside to turn on the light.

"The spare room."

Carla stood aside to let Peter pass. He entered the room, dropped his overnight bag on the floor and looked around him appreciatively.

"Very nice. And you would be… where exactly?"

"Down the end," Carla nodded towards the door at the far end of the landing.

Peter brazenly walked down the hall, opened Carla's bedroom door and walked inside. He looked out through each of the bedroom windows in turn before sitting on the edge of the bed with a cheeky bounce and a cheeky grin up at his ex-wife.

"You're impossible, you know," Carla shook her head in mock frustration. "Come downstairs, I'll make you a brew."

* * *

Carla and Peter sat on each end of Carla's 3-seater sofa, their bodies twisted towards each other, a brew in their hands.

"You've made a really beautiful home for yourself here."

"I like it."

"Isn't it weird though, considering you were meant to be living here with your husband? With Nick?"

"I thought we weren't talking about our love lives?"

"Love? Is that really what you felt for him?"

"Why is me loving Nick Tilsley such a strange concept for you to grasp?"

"Well, because it's Nick flamin' Tilsley. You always hated him."

"I didn't know him."

"So, you got to know him. And then? What? You loved him?"

"Peter," Carla's tone held a warning. "You broke us, remember? You broke me. And Nick? He helped put me back together. And yeah, things ended badly between us, but nothing can ever take away from that."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm tired, I'm going to bed."

Carla stood and walked away from Peter.

"Carla!"

But Carla didn't stop; she didn't turn back; didn't let on that she'd heard his plea.

* * *

The morning sunlight shone through Carla's bedroom windows. Here in the country with no neighbours or prying eyes close by, Carla liked to sleep with the curtains open, to be woken by the rising of the sun.

But that morning, Carla was already awake and had been for well over an hour. She lay there encased in the warm cocoon of her duvet, lost in dreamy thought. She was loathe to admit it, but her thoughts that morning focused solely on the man who was asleep in her spare room mere metres down the hall. She wondered if he was awake, if he was thinking about her the way she was thinking about him.

Suddenly and irresistibly, her thoughts entered dangerous territory. She remembered all those lazy Sunday mornings they'd woken up to in the past, together, in the same bed. How they would cuddle up close to each other, their naked bodies pressed together, skin on skin. How they would kiss, how they would – No! Carla refused to let her thoughts go any further.

* * *

Carla was busy making coffee when Peter came downstairs. She looked at him and had to resist the urge to reach out and flatten that stubborn lock of hair that was sticking up at a weird angle over his forehead.

"Morning. You sleep alright?"

"Too quiet, I'm not used to the country."

"Well, we have to make our own fun down here. Coffee?"

"Please. Hey, umm, I'm sorry if I offended you last night."

"You didn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Carla looked briefly at Peter and smiled before returning to her coffee making.

"So, what are your plans for today? Are you headed to your mate's place?"

"Well… I thought I might, I dunno, if it's okay with you…"

"What?"

"Hang around here for a couple of days. See the sights ya know."

"See the sights?"

"I can check into a hotel if you prefer?"

"No need. You can stay here."

"Really? That's great. Thank you."

"Monday and Tuesday the restaurant's closed so I can be your tour guide."

"Okay," Peter grinned.

"I have to work today though. I'll be leaving in an hour."

"You're going in this morning? But you only do dinner service, don't you?"

"Ah, but Sunday mornings are special. You should come along."

* * *

Carla was right; Sunday mornings at the restaurant were special. Staff would gather for brunch, a chance to relax and socialise with their colleagues and eat some amazing food. The junior chefs were given the opportunity to try out their ideas in the kitchen and test them out on the other chefs and wait staff. They would all sit around the chef's table, laughing and chatting and eating and drinking.

Trays of food were proudly brought to the table where eager hands reached for their share. This morning there was maple smoked fish fillets, prawn dumplings in lobster and coriander consommé, braised leeks topped with a scallop crumble, and mushroom carpaccio with a spelt wholegrain and herb salad.

Peter glanced over at Carla when a tray of sea urchins was brought to the table. To the casual observer, Carla's countenance did not change, but Peter knew her well enough to understand the mental calculations that would be running through her brain trying to figure out exactly how much that tray of food had just cost the restaurant.

Peter couldn't help but look at Carla as often as he dared. He knew he had no right to, but he was incredibly proud of Carla, not just for her business nous in making the restaurant a success, but the way she treated her staff, the way they felt like a big happy family, how every last one of them mattered to Carla. These thoughts were bittersweet to Peter; as welcoming as everyone had been towards him, he knew that he would only ever be a guest at this table.

* * *

Although Carla had promised Peter a guided tour of the town and surrounds the next day, she found that she had some business to take care of at the restaurant first. So Peter wandered down to the cliff terrace for a coffee and a cigarette while he waited.

Peter had always felt at home around boats, the coast, the ocean. Now, as he stared out over the water, the smell of the salt spray fresh in his nostrils, he felt the pull of the sea, as strong as it had ever been. That longing to set sail for ports unknown, the lure of adventure on the high seas.

But, once again, reality pulled him back from the edge. Once again, Peter mourned the fact that he would soon have to leave this magical place. He had one, maybe two days here, then that was it, back to the real world. Back to Weatherfield and the drudgery that had gradually snuck up on him and become his life.

What made it more painful for Peter was the knowledge that this is how it should have been for him. For him and Carla. If he hadn't messed it up, they could have been living this life together. But, as much as he wanted it, he couldn't see a way back for them. Not now.

* * *

Peter followed his ears and his nose into the restaurant kitchen where head chef Brendan was busy cooking, for who, Peter wasn't quite sure.

"Hey there," Peter sauntered over to Brendan's work station and peered into the various pots and pans on the stovetop.

"Peter. I didn't know you were here."

"I'm waiting for Carla."

"Where is she?"

"In her office catching up on paperwork."

"That one doesn't know what a day off means."

"I could say the same thing about you."

"I'm planning the menu for the week."

"I don't know how you do it. I wouldn't even know where to start."

"It's a pretty simple process really. Once you've figured out what produce is good quality at the moment, in season, available locally, then it's a matter of splitting them up into the twelve courses. I try to focus each course on one main ingredient and one main method of cooking. And there's a natural flow to the course progression. You know, you start off light, maybe raw, quite often vegetarian. Then the next course you want to be a little bit more robust, but not too much. Still something light, poached maybe. There's generally a soup in the first few courses, then eventually you get up to the heavier main style courses. Then the desserts. We try for six lighter courses, three mains, and three desserts."

As Brendan spoke, Peter watched in fascination as the chef grilled a flour tortilla, spread on it a layer of chipotle mayo, then carefully placed on top soft-shell crab that had been tossed in a lightly spiced and seasoned flour and shallow fried. A handful of fresh red cabbage, radish, cucumber and coriander slaw, a squeeze of fresh lime and a sprinkling of black sesame seeds completed the dish.

Brendan folded the tortilla over and tucked in the edges before handing it over to Peter.

"Go on, tell me what you think."

Peter took the tortilla from Brendan's hands and eagerly took a big bite out of it. Brendan looked on in anticipation as Peter chewed and swallowed, too slowly for the impatient chef's liking.

"Well?"

"Amazing. I can't even describe… In the coating of the crab, what is that spice? Is it…?"

"Smoked paprika?"

"That's the one. The whole thing is, well, it's perfection."

"I shoulda known I'd find you in here stuffing your face."

Peter turned, the half-eaten tortilla in his hand, to where Carla was standing, leant against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, an amused expression on her face.

"Quality control, don't ya know."

Carla strode into the kitchen, taking her position close to Peter's side.

"Oh yeah? So, does it pass?"

"You tell me."

Peter held the tortilla to Carla's mouth, silently inviting her to bite. She opened her mouth and took a mouthful, her eyes locked on Peter's the whole time.

Brendan watched on, highly amused. He'd never seen his boss like this before; playful, happy.

"So… What are you guys up to today?"

"We are gonna be tourists for the day, aren't we?" Carla turned to smile at Peter.

"Yeah, with this one as tour guide," Peter pointed at Carla with a mock grimace. "Do you think I should be worried?"

"Definitely."

But neither Carla nor Peter were listening to Brendan, he may as well have not existed; they had eyes only for each other.

* * *

In the end, Carla didn't have to try very hard to be a good tour guide. Apart from the fact that Peter would have been mesmerised if she'd shown him around the local rubbish dump, Carla's adopted home town was so picturesque, it could have been lifted right off a tourist board brochure.

An historic old town with quaint houses crowded along steep and narrow cobbled streets, all roads led to the sea; a small harbour where fishing boats docked to offload their daily catch; a promenade flanking the pebbled pleasure beach that metamorphosed into a fairground in the summer months. There were the obligatory fish and chipperies, tourist shops selling tat to the unsuspecting, video arcades, stalls renting deck chairs. Everything you'd expect from a seaside tourist town.

But, as soon as you got out of town, you got away from the hordes, to where the coastline became wild; where the sheer cliffs rose like giants out of the water, towering over a rock shore that, at low tide, revealed exquisite rock pools where beachcombers could find shells, crabs, tiny fish, seaweed, little starfish, limpets, snails, all sorts of things; but with high tide came danger and the relentless pounding surf would mercilessly dash any creature caught unawares onto the sharp and deadly rocks.

It was here that Carla eventually guided Peter and they spent a few delightful hours, expressing their inner child; clambering over the rocks, peering into rock pools, splashing each other, throwing seaweed at each other, laughing more in one day than either of them could remember laughing before in a month.

After their excursion on the rock shore, they climbed a winding path to the top of the cliffs, crowned with soft green grass, and backing onto the rolling green hills of south-west England. They stood, side-by-side, and gazed at the breathtaking views over the English Channel.

Turning around, Peter's eyes scoured the countryside, searching.

"What are you looking for?"

"I was just wondering if we could see your house from here?"

"Over there."

Carla pointed to a spot in the middle-distance where a keen observer could make out a tiny stone cottage nestled amongst the fields. Peter leaned into Carla, ostensibly to better see where she was pointing, but really to be closer to her, to feel the heat of her body, her breath as it escaped her mouth, the thump of her heart beating in her chest.

* * *

Carla and Peter headed back into town for dinner. Not to eat in the stylish surrounds of Carla's restaurant, but on the seafront; chips eaten out of a paper cone, a dollop of mayo on top. A visit to the local fish market provided a dozen freshly shucked oysters which they eagerly slurped down, straight from the half-shell, while sitting on the wide steps that led from the promenade down onto the beach.

A clear, mild night ensued; they didn't want their day to end, so Peter suggested a walk along the beach.

"You know you can walk along the beach all the way to just below my house?"

"Really? Alright, I'm in."

"Hang on, I wasn't suggesting we actually do it."

"Why not?"

"Well, because it'd take hours."

"So?"

Carla stared at Peter, dumbfounded.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Come on, it'll be fun. Look, if you get tired, I'll give you a piggy-back."

Carla laughed incredulously.

"Carla? What do ya say?"

"Okay. Why not."

* * *

And so they walked, and talked, and walked, and talked some more. Having reached the beach below Carla's cottage, both were suddenly reluctant to climb the steps. Those steps represented re-entering the real world, and neither were ready for that.

Instead, they sat together on the beach and watched as the sun slowly rose over the water. There were periods of silence between them, but the silence was never awkward; they were simply at peace with each other. It felt natural for them to be together; in this place of exquisite natural beauty, they almost believed it was god-ordained.

Of course, the most natural thing was for Peter to reach him arm around Carla's shoulder and draw her in close to him; just as it was a natural thing for Carla to rest her head on Peter's shoulder.

And so the new day dawned with the former couple huddled together on the beach, communing with nature, with each other.

Carla couldn't help but snuggle into that sweet spot; that spot between Peter's chin, his neck, his shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight.

"This is perfect," Peter's words didn't break the spell, they simply moved them onto a higher plane.

Carla looked up at Peter; Peter looked down at Carla.

As if moving with one mind, one thought, one desire, they leaned into each other, their lips sought out the other's lips and they were kissing, a sweet and gentle kiss at first. But then, just like the tide surging in over the tranquil rock pools, their kisses became wild and passionate. Their tongues eagerly sought out the other's tongue, the other's mouth, exploring the pleasures within, circling tongue around tongue, licking lips, sucking lips.

Peter moved his lips away from Carla's; he kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. A trail of soft kisses, hot kisses, wet kisses. Peter's hands roamed over Carla's back and up over her neck and then his fingers were raking through her hair. He dropped one hand to her lower back, he pulled at the hem of her top, his fingers slid underneath the fabric and glided over her bare skin, smooth and warm to his touch.

"No."

At first, Peter didn't register Carla's words.

"No. Peter, please stop."

Peter stopped immediately; he would never force Carla to do anything she didn't want to do, not after everything she had been through with Frank.

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? This is wrong, Peter. We shouldn't be doing this."

"You weren't complaining a minute ago."

"I got caught up and… That's not the point, Peter. You're in a relationship. I'm not doing this. I'm not being the other woman. Not again."

Peter sat for a moment, head hanging down between his knees, lost in thought.

"I'm sorry, I really am. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have come. I just…"

"What?"

"I guess, I dunno, I wanted to see you, like this, one last time before…"

"Before what?" Suddenly Carla was scared; she felt her heart turn icy cold with fear.

It was a long time before Peter could bring himself to answer.

"You know I'm with Toyah, right?"

"Yep," Carla wondered why Peter was so determined to torture her.

"You see, Toyah's always been… very, umm, desperate to have a baby."

"Oh."

"We'd tried everything. Fertility treatments, IVF. But nothing was working. So we decided, well, it was Toyah really. She found a woman who agreed to be our surrogate. Then the other day, Saturday actually, umm…"

"Tell me," Carla's voice was barely a whisper.

"We found out the surrogate, she's pregnant."

* * *

Carla marched furiously along the narrow dirt track as the morning sun gradually showered the surrounding fields with a warm glow.

"Carla!" Peter was close on Carla's heels.

"I don't want to hear it."

"I'm sorry. I was confused."

Carla stopped and turned around to face Peter.

"Confused? You're having a baby, Peter. You had no right to be kissing me."

"Well, you were kissing me just as much as I was kissing you."

"Are you serious? I'm not the one in a relationship, Peter. I'm not the one about to become a parent."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

Carla laughed; a derisive laugh.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm not upset about you. I don't care about you, or your stupid perfect life."

"Trust me, it's not perfect."

"I don't care, Peter. I really don't. I'm not upset about you. I'm upset that I let myself get sucked in by you again. I can promise you one thing, it will never ever happen again."

Carla turned her back on Peter and walked as fast as she could; she wanted to be home, to be safe. She knew Peter was following her, that he was trying to talk to her, but she blocked him out. She was determined to cut him out of her life again, out of her mind, and out of her heart.

* * *

Carla opened the window of her spare bedroom and tossed Peter's overnight bag onto the ground below at Peter's feet.

"Go! Get out of here. I mean it. I don't ever want to see you here again."

"Carla, please can we just talk?"

But Carla slammed the window shut. Suddenly all was silent. Peter knew Carla well enough to understand that there would be no reasoning with her now. The only thing he could do was go back to his life and leave Carla to get on with hers. He didn't want it to be this way, but he didn't know what else he could do. He was trapped; the baby had seen to that.

* * *

Carla peeked out of the window and watched as Peter drove away from her cottage, out of her life for good. But, even after everything that had ever happened between her and Peter; no matter how much he hurt her, how much he let her down and disappointed her, he never seemed to leave her heart. Even now, he was there, inside her, refusing to leave. She was terrified that he would always be there, in her heart, and wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

With that, she collapsed on the floor, the tears flowed from her eyes as she lay sobbing, shaking uncontrollably at the knowledge of what she had once again lost. Only this time it really did seem to be forever.


	4. Chapter 4: Ghosts and bad memories

**Chapter 4: Ghosts and bad memories**

"What does he want?" Brendan watched Carla closely; his boss had always been cagey about her family, never giving much away, and he freely admitted that he was curious about the Connors.

"Money I expect," Carla surmised between mouthfuls of Brendan's delicious soft-set scrambled eggs on toasted rye sourdough, topped with thin slices of oak and apple cold-smoked salmon and baby capers.

Brendan sat opposite Carla at the chef's table, nursing a strong, black, steaming mug of coffee, as the morning sun was just beginning to filter in through the windows.

Even though Carla wanted an early start to what was going to be a long day of travelling, she had made sure to allow some time with Brendan to discuss the running of the restaurant while she was away.

"Are you gonna give it to him?"

"I honestly don't know. I'll hear him out and go from there."

Carla pushed her empty plate away from her and did her best to change the subject.

"Thanks for that. Delicious, as always. Now, listen, is everything sorted with this week's menu? Any special orders I need to take care of?"

"It's fine, you don't have to do anything."

"And service?"

"Bella's gonna be you, and I've called in extra wait staff to cover for her."

"What about –"

"Carla, you're going away for one or two days. The restaurant will not fall apart in that time."

"I know, sorry, I trust you to run things, I really do, I just…"

"You're a control freak."

"Well… yes, I am."

"Why don't you get on the road while it's still quiet and I'll call you if anything comes up."

Brendan rose to his feet and fixed his gaze on Carla until she reluctantly followed suit.

"Before you go, I've got something for you."

Brendan ducked into the main kitchen and soon returned with a soft cooler bag in his hands, obviously filled with some goodies he'd prepared earlier. He held the bag out to Carla.

"Lunch, dinner, whatever."

"I do know how to feed myself."

"Not when you're stressed you don't."

"I'm not –"

"Carla," Brendan could see right through Carla's protestations.

"Okay, maybe a little. I just… going back there. It's something I'd hoped to avoid."

"Can't you do it over the phone then?"

"I wish," Carla sighed. "But when your brother practically begs you to come home…" Carla laughed at this. "Home… what else can I do?"

"Seeing your family, is that the only thing you're worried about?"

"You don't give up, do you?"

"Well, one minute he's all cosy down here, got his feet right under the table, and then… he's gone, no explanation, no warning, nothing."

"Peter's not an issue anymore."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm going now," Carla took the cooler bag from Brendan. "Thank you for this."

"So, you are going to see him?"

Brendan followed Carla out of the kitchen and towards the front of the restaurant.

"Not if I can help it."

"You want to see him, though, admit it."

"Wrong."

"Don't believe you."

"I don't care if you believe me or not," Carla pushed open the front door of the restaurant and turned around to face Brendan; she was determined to have the last word. "Remind me to fire you when I get back."

"What for?"

"Being a nosy so and so."

Carla gave Brendan a quick peck on the cheek before making her way out the front door and to her car.

* * *

Despite her early start, roadworks and traffic congestion meant Carla didn't arrive in Weatherfield until after 2pm. As her car sped past the Rovers, she silently prayed that the landlord was safely inside the premises and wasn't on hand to witness her not so triumphant return to the street.

Carla parked in front of the factory, eerily quiet despite the time, and quickly made her way to Number 6, desperate to get out of sight of prying eyes.

Yasmeen answered Carla's knock; obviously Aidan hadn't mentioned Carla's impending visit.

"Carla? What are you doing here?"

"Umm, is Aidan in?"

"Yeah, of course. Come in."

Yasmeen ushered Carla inside.

"Aidan!" Yasmeen yelled unceremoniously up the stairs.

"So, Carla," Yasmeen attempted to make small talk. "What have you been up to since… you know, you, umm, left…"

Both women were suddenly very conscious of the reasons why Carla had left town almost two years previous; of the shame with which she had fled what had been her home for almost a decade.

"This and that."

"Oh, right."

An awkward silence fell over the living room, until finally a third party entered to break the tension.

"Carla!"

Aidan almost flew down the stairs in his eagerness to greet his sister; he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in for a hug.

"Thanks for coming."

Aidan's warm welcome threatened to overwhelm Carla; she buried her face in her brother's shoulder and blinked back the tears.

* * *

"Sorry, it's a bit of a madhouse in there," Aidan and Carla had escaped the house and were standing on the doorstep of his temporary home.

"Why on earth are you living with the Nazirs anyway?"

"Long story. Why don't I tell you over a hotpot in the Rovers?"

"Umm…" Going into the Rovers was the last thing Carla wanted to do. "Hotpot? Really? They're a tad overrated don't ya think?"

"You used to love the hotpot."

"Yeah, well, things change. People change. Listen, I've got a much better idea."

* * *

Aidan and Carla stepped into the cool darkness of the empty factory; Carla looked around at the refurbished building while Aidan switched on the lights.

Carla stood in the middle of the barren main work area, sadly bereft of machines and activity, and stared up at the recently replaced roof.

"Tell me again what happened to the roof?"

"It got nicked. Along with all the machines, all the fixtures and fittings. Everything. It was all gone."

"And the police, did they come up with anything? Any leads?"

"We couldn't take it further; there was, umm, there was no evidence."

Something in Aidan's voice made Carla look at him suspiciously; he pointedly avoided her gaze.

"Aidan? What aren't you telling me?"

"So," Aidan was intent on changing the subject. "What has this fancy chef of yours made us for lunch?"

"That can wait."

"You know, if it wasn't for you, I'd be tucking into a hotpot right now."

"Alright," Carla capitulated, for now. "Let's eat. But don't think we're done with this conversation."

* * *

Carla and Aidan sat on folding chairs at the basic desk that stood in the centre of an otherwise bare office, Brendan's picnic feast spread out in front of them. Putting all talk of business aside for now, they grazed on artichoke and smoked ricotta tart, broad bean, farro and crispy kale salad, zucchini and sweet potato bread with a lemony dill cream cheese spread, and decadent triple chocolate walnut brownies for dessert. To wash it all down, Brendan had packed his latest experiment, an organic ginger and honey switchel drink. Both Carla and Aidan looked askance at the drink at first, a mixture of apple cider vinegar, lemon juice, ginger, and honey, but were pleasantly surprised with its refreshing qualities.

With lunch finally over, Carla decided it was time to tackle Aidan on the fate of the factory roof.

"So, are you gonna tell me who took the roof?"

"I don't know."

"Don't insult me, Aidan. I know you know."

"Okay, I know, but there's no proof."

"Well?"

"Eva –"

"Eva? Why? Don't tell me it was because you did the dirty on her?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Aidan hung his head in shame.

"Spiteful cow."

"She _was_ being cheated on, don't forget."

"Hmmm," Carla wasn't convinced. "But Maria? Really, Aidan? I mean, isn't she, like, your second cousin's widow or something like that? A bit close to home."

Aidan merely laughed.

"Hypocrite much!"

"What?"

"Liam Connor. Need I say more?"

"Oh, yeah. But still, it didn't give Eva the right to do what she did."

"Maybe."

"What about the insurance?"

"What about it?"

"They paid out, didn't they?"

"Yeah, to my dad, not me."

"And…?"

"And he refused to reinvest it in the factory."

"Why? What's he gonna do with it?"

"He and Jenny are moving to Spain."

"Spain? Nice for some."

"Which is why…"

"Oh, here we go."

"What?"

"Nothing. I just… I guessed that's what you wanted. Money, right?"

"The builder's on my case to pay for the repairs, and I still need to buy new machines, materials, everything."

"You shouldn't have agreed to the repairs if you couldn't afford to pay."

"I just need to get this place up and running again, get some money coming in the door, and then I can pay back every last penny. With interest."

"So, you mess up and you thought you'd call your long-lost sister to beg for money?"

"I'd tried everyone else. I had nowhere else to go."

"Wow. I wasn't even your first choice. What am I? The last chance saloon?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"You know, it might be a little less insulting if you had actually made an effort to stay in touch after I left."

"Whoa! Hang on! Where's this coming from?"

"But the first time I hear from you in almost two years and you're after money."

"Hey! This ain't all down to me. I don't remember you ever calling me for a friendly chat."

"I'm not the one asking for money."

"Why would you ask when you can take instead."

Carla was shocked into silence.

"Yeah, dad told me about you nicking ten grand from the company account."

"I paid it back."

"Just admit it, you don't want to be a part of this family. Not really. You couldn't wait to move as far away from us as possible."

"That's not fair. You know why I had to leave."

"You didn't leave, you ran away."

"I don't have to put up with this."

Carla stood and marched out of the office, slamming the door behind her with such force that it shook on its hinges.

"Carla!"

But Carla didn't stop; she couldn't stop, she didn't want Aidan to see the tears that were smarting her eyes. She had thought that her and Aidan had a good relationship; that, no matter what their father had done in the past, his rejection of her as his daughter, his abandonment of her, that Aidan always accepted her as a sister. To find out that he saw her as no more than a cash machine crushed Carla's already fragile heart.

A moment later, Aidan heard the sound of the factory door slam shut, propelled by as much anger as the office door had mere moments earlier.

Carla walked blindly down the street, her thoughts overwhelmingly preoccupied with the argument she'd just had with Aidan. She barely knew the steps she was taking, she certainly had no idea of her destination.

In this state of mind, it was no surprise that Carla didn't see him until it was too late, until she'd crashed into him as he turned the corner right into her path.

"I'm so sorry, I –" only now did Carla realise who she'd just walked into.

"Carla," Peter had obviously had no inkling she had returned to the street; the shock on his face was evident. As the shock wore off, Peter noticed the anguish on Carla's face. "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Leave me alone, will you."

Carla tried to walk away, but Peter grabbed her wrist.

"You are not fine."

"Let go of me," Carla tried to wrest her arm free.

"No. Not until you calm down. Come out back and sit down for a minute."

Carla glared at Peter, furious that she'd allowed herself to be seen vulnerable by him. Then she looked into his eyes; those soft brown eyes that seemed to burn into her very soul. She tried to wrench her gaze away from those eyes, terrified of the power they still held over her.

"Okay," Carla silently berated herself for her immediate and total surrender. But her regret didn't stop her from following him down the side of the Rovers and into the backyard. Peter lit a cigarette and took a drag before opening proceedings with Carla.

"So, what got you so upset?"

"I wasn't upset."

"Carla."

"Family stuff. You know what they can be like."

"Your family?"

"No, silly. Families in general."

"Yeah, I know."

A strangely un-awkward silence fell over the pair as they sat side-by-side in this all too familiar place from their past life together.

"If there's anything I can do…"

"There's not."

"Well, you know where I am."

Carla turned to look at Peter; he was sat so close to her, their faces were mere inches apart, all she had to do was lean in.

"I should go," Carla jumped to her feet.

Peter copied her move.

"Please don't go. Not yet."

Carla didn't move; she didn't speak either. She waited for Peter to break the silence, the palpable tension caused her every nerve ending to feel like it was on fire.

"I wanted to apologise."

"For what?" She fixed her eyes on him; he found it difficult to meet her gaze.

"You know, what happened when I was down in Devon. I know it was a shock for you to find out about the baby."

"It's done, Peter, it's in the past."

"That's just it, it's not. You know it's not."

Finally, Peter was able to look her in the eyes. He knew he was at fault in Devon, that he hadn't been honest with Carla. But now, he knew he was speaking the truth.

"You have no idea how much I wish things were different," Peter took his chance and reached out to Carla, gently touching her cheek. Carla closed her eyes for the briefest moment, relaxing under his touch.

"I sometimes think that, if it was our baby, our baby girl –"

"Don't you dare!" Carla suddenly slapped Peter's hand away from her. "Don't you dare talk about her."

"I'm sorry."

"It's too late for sorry, Peter. Five years too late."

"I know I can never make it up to you."

"Good. I'm glad you know. Because you can't, you can never make it better. Especially now, with your new family, your new baby."

"Carla, I –"

"And you know the worst thing?" Carla was on a roll now.

"No, I –"

"I was doing great without you. Fantastic. I had built a new life away from here, away from you. And then you show up and act all… like you, like the you I… when you knew all along that it couldn't go anywhere."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop. Saying. You're. Sorry."

Carla marched furiously to the back gate of the Rovers yard.

"Leave me alone, Peter. I mean it."

With that, Carla was gone.

Peter buried his head in his hands; that couldn't have gone worse, he thought. But he was wrong, things could always get worse where his love life was concerned.

"At least now I know where you disappeared to all those months ago."

"Toyah, I –"

"What? You're sorry?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"I don't know. Everything."

"Are you still in love with her?"

"I –"

"No. Don't answer. I don't think I want to know. It doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that we're having a baby, Peter. We're going to be a family. You, me and the baby."

"And Simon, right?"

"Of course. Look, you've had a wobble. That's fine, I expected it from you."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Oh, come off it, Peter. It's what you do. It's what you've always done. But know this. It stops now. Do you understand?"

Peter refused to answer; his face was as black as thunder. He looked straight ahead, avoiding Toyah's stare, instead lighting another cigarette.

"I said, do you understand?"

But Peter remained sullen.

"Peter!"

Toyah's phone rang.

"This isn't over, Peter." Toyah was at pains to point out before answering the phone. "Hello? What? How far along? Okay, it's gonna be fine, trust me, I'll be there as soon as I can."

"What's happening? Is it the baby?"

"Umm, yeah. She's, umm, Jackie, she's in labour."

"Okay, let's go."

"Not you."

"What?"

"I don't want you there."

"You can't keep me from my own baby's birth."

"You think so, do you? After what I overheard this afternoon, I don't want you anywhere near the birth. You best stay here and look after the pub."

Toyah wasn't in the mood for any more arguments; she turned her back on Peter and swiftly entered through the back door of the Rovers.

* * *

"Here you are."

Carla looked up from where she had been sitting alone in Victoria Gardens.

"Aidan, I don't have the energy for any more arguments today. So, please, can you give me a break."

"I'm not here to argue," Aidan sat down next to Carla. "I'm here to apologise."

Carla turned to face her brother.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Look, I'm sorry, I was way out of line. I know why you had to leave. I don't begrudge you leaving at all. Truth is, if I was any kind of brother, I would've gone to visit you."

"Yeah, well, if I was any kind of sister, I would've called you."

"Maybe we're both a little rubbish at this family thing."

"Yeah, total rubbish. I'll do better in future. I will."

"Me too."

Aidan put his arm around Carla; she rested her head on his shoulder.

"Talking about rubbish families," Aidan broke the comfortable silence. "I'm under strict instruction to get you to the Bistro."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes."

"I don't think I can deal with a full-on family thing. Not today."

"Face the situation like a Connor would."

Carla looked at him and shrugged her shoulders, confused at his meaning.

"Booze," Aidan explained. "It's the Connor way."

"Here I was thinking it was the Carla way."

"You're a Connor, aren't you?"

Carla smiled to herself.

"Yeah, I am."

* * *

"Alright, Carla?"

Carla sighed; of course Robert would be the first person she saw on entering the Bistro.

"Good thanks, Robert. You?"

"Yep."

"I better," Carla nodded towards where the Connors were gathered. "Go join the family."

"Right. Good to see you."

"Yeah," Carla was relieved to escape that awkward situation and hurried over to a table on the far side of the restaurant.

"Carla, Carla," Johnny actually sounded happy to see her. He stood and gave his eldest daughter an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a hug. "Come sit down."

Carla, along with Aidan, sat down after exchanging greetings with Kate, Jenny and Rita of all people.

"Drink, love?"

"Umm," Carla had just spied Michelle emerging from the Bistro kitchen. "I'll get one at the bar."

"Hey, I'm paying today, okay?"

"I'll put it on your tab, I just wanna say hi to Chelle."

Carla made her way to the bar where she and Michelle had their long-awaited reunion. Carla wrapped her best friend in a loving hug and stroked her hair gently.

"Oh, Chelle, I've missed you so much."

"Missed you too, darlin'. I didn't know you were coming though, you kept that quiet."

"I should've called. Sorry."

"It's just not the same, you know. I miss having you here. Like when I lost Ruari."

"Chelle, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault. Don't be daft. You've got your own life to live. Anyway, what's done is done. How long you in town for?"

"A day or two."

"Is that all?"

"I do have a business to run."

"I know, I know. Ignore me, I'm being selfish."

"You're not. It's just… hard, you know, being back here."

"I know what will help with that. Glass of red?"

"A large one, thanks Chelle. A very large one."

* * *

After the initial awkward conversations were out of the way – and after a few wines to lubricate the mood – Carla enjoyed the family dinner. Towards the end of the meal, Aidan sat down next to Carla in a chair recently vacated by their father.

"How you doing?"

"Honestly, Aidan, I'm a bit tired."

"Don't worry, I'm not here to hassle you about the factory. That's not important, not really, not compared to family."

Carla smiled at Aidan, a weary, grateful smile.

"I don't want your money, Carla, not if it's going to harm our relationship. I'd rather have you as a sister than an investor."

"Thank you. I appreciate that. Listen, now's not the time to talk about it, yeah? So, umm, why don't we meet up tomorrow?"

"You're sticking around then?"

"At least one night. I mean, I can't drive after a Connor family boozing session, can I?"

"Lunch tomorrow then? In the Rovers?"

"Umm," Carla wasn't overly pleased with the location, but Aidan accusing her of running away from her problems had really hit home for her. She wanted to test herself now, to prove that she could face Peter with her head held high.

* * *

"If, and I mean if, Aidan," Carla and Aidan were sat in one of the Rovers booths. "If I were to invest, I wouldn't want to be involved in the running of the place. That would be down to you. I'd be a silent partner, creaming off all the profits. That's it."

"So, you're actually thinking of investing?"

"Yeah, I think I am."

"That's great. Thank you. Thank you so much."

"We've still got a lot of details to work out, so…"

Their attention was suddenly diverted to the other side of the bar, where Peter and Toyah had just appeared from the back of the pub. Cradled in Peter's arms was an exquisitely beautiful baby girl.

All of the pub's patrons gathered around to congratulate the couple on the new arrival, "Susie". Susie was soon being passed around the pub, everyone was eager to hold the newborn and coo over her cuteness.

Susie's parents watched with an anxious pride as their daughter made the rounds. Soon they were watching as Sally Metcalfe offered Susie to Carla to hold.

"Oh, no no, definitely not."

Sally merely smiled indulgently; she knew Mrs Connor had never been very maternal. Instead she offered the baby to Aidan.

"Mr Connor?"

Aidan couldn't resist; he took Susie from Sally's arms and rocked her gently in his arms. He gazed down at the baby, who appeared to be staring back up at him with the same singular intensity.

Carla watched on with bemusement; she'd never known her brother to be clucky before. But watching him now, she could easily picture him as a father.

"Here, let me take her," Toyah loomed over Aidan, her arms outstretched to take her daughter. "It's time for her feed."

"Oh, okay," Aidan handed the baby over to Toyah, who immediately carried her without a backwards glance around the bar and out the back door to the private residence beyond.

Aidan looked across at Carla.

"What?"

"You've gone soft," Carla teased her brother. "Over a baby."

"Have not. Can't stand the noisy, smelly things."

Carla merely smirked; no way did she believe his protestations.

* * *

"That's confirmed, is it?"

Aidan watched Carla anxiously as she spoke on the phone.

"Great, thank you so much."

Carla hung up and turned to Aidan.

"It's gone through."

"Really?"

"The money's all there in your bank account."

"Oh my god," Aidan hugged Carla. "Thank you so much. I can't even begin –"

"No gushing, please, Aidan. This is business, okay? All I want from you is for you to manage this place professionally and efficiently. Which I know you can do. So, no thanks needed."

"Okay, if you insist. You'll come to the Bistro, though, for a celebratory drink?"

"No, I really need to hit the road."

"Stay for another night. Go on, you know you can't resist a party."

"I said no!"

"Okay, sorry."

"No, Aidan, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I snapped. I just… I need to get outta here. This place, it's full of ghosts and bad memories."

"But all that was years ago."

"Not all of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Ignore me, just... I need to go, that's all."

"You can't stay? Just one night? For me?"

"Aidan, please."

Aidan's face suddenly fell, as if someone had flicked a switch on his emotions.

"Are you okay?" Aidan's sudden mood change hadn't gone unnoticed by Carla.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're mad at me for leaving."

"For god's sake Carla," Aidan snapped. "Give it a rest! Not everything's about you."

"I'm sorry."

A deafening silence engulfed them.

"Aidan?"

"What?"

"You'd tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Yep. Just like you would with me. Right?"

"Right."

* * *

Carla felt an overwhelming sense of relief as she drove away from Weatherfield; relief that, finally, she was leaving behind her past, along with all the painful memories that came with it.

This relief was heightened as she drove past the Rovers and saw Peter stood on the pavement smoking a cigarette. She avoided his gaze, instead focusing her attention on the road ahead.

She honestly hoped she would never again have to come back to this place. But something didn't feel right; something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She questioned whether she'd given up too easily, if she was, in fact, still running away.

She thought about Aidan, about the pride she felt in him getting the factory up and running again. But it was more than that, more than business; she felt a pride in him as a big sister. Suddenly, she knew she needed to tell him how she felt; she couldn't leave without him knowing.

So she placed a hands-free call to her brother on her mobile, only to be disappointed when she could only reach his voicemail.

"Hey, Aidan. Umm, I'm not really sure why I'm calling. I just, umm, I wanted you to know how proud I am of you. That's it really. That's all I wanted to say. And that I love you. Okay, I'll talk to you later, yeah? Bye."

* * *

Aidan had remained in the darkened factory alone after Carla had left. All he wanted was to be on his own; to think, or not think. Both options seemed equally exhausting to him.

His phone beeped; Carla had obviously left a message when he hadn't answered her call. He didn't want to listen to it, he couldn't handle it if it was another blow. What if she'd changed her mind? If she wanted her money back? If she didn't trust him to run the factory after all?

What was wrong with him? Why was he feeling this way? He knew he should be happy, he'd finally gotten what he wanted. The factory was his again to manage as he saw fit. He'd be able to give everyone their jobs back. He could get his own flat, his own life.

So why did he still feel like this? Empty. Useless. Wrong. Everything was wrong, and he had no idea how to make it right.

The tears slipped down his cheeks as the hopelessness overwhelmed him.


	5. Chapter 5: Regrets

**Chapter 5: Regrets**

"This is our tinned sardines," Carla explained as she placed the delicacies in front of two diners. "I know it sounds dead common, but then so am I."

Carla smiled as the diners laughed at her little joke.

"So, we've got local pan-fried sardines served with a caponata relish, crispy fried capers and sourdough crispbread."

Brendan had come up with the idea to serve the sardines in sardine tins that had been cleaned and the sharp edges ground down, wanting to draw the diners memories back to childhood dinners while at the same time providing them with a refined dining experience. He'd previously done the same with beans on toast, boiled eggs and soldiers, among others.

"And paired with the sardines is this Txakoli," Carla poured the pale green wine into tall glasses from a height, as was tradition with this wine. "From the Basque Country in northern Spain. You'll notice it's very dry and quite acidic, which makes it the perfect counterpoint to the sardines which are quite a fatty fish."

"It looks amazing, thank you."

"Enjoy."

Carla placed the bottle of wine back into the bar fridge and made her way to the kitchen which was at the peak of the restaurant's busy Sunday dinner service. She glanced over to the alcove where the chef's table was positioned.

"Oh god," Carla pressed her palms to her forehead in dismay; the table was empty.

Carla looked around frantically; pointlessly; as if he would be hiding somewhere in the kitchen.

"Bella!" Carla hurried to where her close friend and senior waiter was picking up plates from the pass. "Where is he?"

"On the terrace."

"Thanks."

"Carla."

"Yeah?"

"He's umm, he's had quite a bit to drink."

* * *

Carla rushed as fast as she dared down the dark winding path and onto the cliff terrace, filled with diners enjoying the mussels that had been smoking all afternoon in the row of smokers positioned at the far end of the terrace.

As the diners made their way to the terrace throughout the evening, a chef was on hand to toss the plump smoked mussels in the finest extra virgin olive oil – Carla remembered the staggering amount of olive oil tastings Brendan had dragged her to on their culinary tour of Europe; but the result, olive oil ordered in bulk each year from the same olive grove in Spain, was delicious – and served on garlic toast, topped with a creamy and crunchy celeriac remoulade. All this washed down with a crisp New Zealand pinot gris.

Carla made a quick stop at the smoking station where her chef eagerly presented her with a tasty morsel before she scanned the terrace.

"He's over there."

Carla looked to where her chef was nodding, embarrassed that her personal life was being made public to her staff in such a humiliating way.

"So that's where I get it from," Carla mused to herself as she spotted the bottle of wine and single wine glass on the table in front of her father.

Carla tentatively approached Johnny; she still didn't know what to say to him, nothing seemed to make him feel any better.

"Hey," was Carla's minimalist approach.

Johnny looked up at his daughter; Carla could hardly bear to see the look in his eyes. Haunted. Hopeless. Lost.

"I… am enjoying your cellar… very much."

Johnny poured some more wine into his glass and took a large swig.

"So I see."

"Can I ask you a question?"

Carla sat down opposite Johnny, prepared for a repeat of the same conversation she'd been having with him for the past week that he'd been staying with her. The words might change, but the theme was always the same: Why?

"Am I a terrible father?"

"Umm…" Carla didn't know what to say; the truth was, Johnny had been a terrible father to her for most of her life.

"No! Don't answer that. I know your answer. I was, I admit it, I do, I was a terrible father to _you_. But imagine this…"

Carla simply waited while Johnny's mind trailed off, who knows where.

"Imagine," Johnny leaned forward with renewed vigour; Carla almost recoiled at the stench of booze that emanated from his breath. "If I had loved you all your life. Looked after you. Gave you everything you wanted. Like I did with Aidan… Aidan. My boy. Why did he do it? Why?"

Johnny stared at Carla as if she had the answer. But she didn't; no one did.

"I don't know," Carla quickly wiped away the tears that had leaked, unbidden, from her eyes; she had to be the strong one. She reached out and placed her hand gently over Johnny's. "I do know it had nothing to do with you."

"How do you know?"

Carla desperately searched for an answer. The truth was she didn't know why her brother had decided to end his life. The one thing she did know was that her father needed the comfort of knowing it wasn't his fault.

"Well, if it was down to your parenting skills, why am I still here?"

Johnny looked forlornly at Carla, his mind slowly pondering her words through an almost blinding haze of alcohol and grief.

But Carla couldn't bear it any longer. "Come on, I'm taking you home."

* * *

Wanting to avoid the inquisitive eyes of her diners, and the very real danger that a clearly intoxicated Johnny might make a scene, Carla led him through the wrought iron gate fixed into the stone wall that surrounded the kitchen garden and guided him into the kitchen.

"Wait here a minute," Carla helped Johnny into a seat at the chef's table. "Don't move."

Leaving Johnny to wallow in his grief alone, Carla went in search of Bella.

Carla found her deputy in the restaurant bar; Bella had just hung up the phone when she saw her boss approaching.

"Guess who that was?" Bella was, Carla could only describe it as gleeful.

"You're joking? Again?"

"Are you ever gonna talk to him?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe?"

"Are you still in love with him?"

"No!" Carla was outraged. "That's ridiculous. He's my ex-husband for a reason, you know."

"Whatever you say," Bella was amused; no matter how much Carla denied it, Bella was certain that her boss had unresolved feelings for that very same ex-husband.

"I don't!" Carla protested. "And I don't have time for this, again. You're in charge of the dining room for the rest of service, okay?"

"What?" Bella panicked at the unexpected responsibility being thrust on her.

"Johnny's in a state," Carla explained. "What else can I do? I need to get him home."

* * *

Carla stood on the terrace of her cottage. She generally loved nights like this; mild and clear, so she could hear the waves crashing on the shore in the distance, the crickets and cicadas singing their night-time chorus, the gentle wind whispering through the crops in the fields. She never felt lonely sitting out here on her own, wrapped in a light shawl, glass of wine in her hand, alone with the world; her world.

But tonight, the night held no peace for her; for tonight she had a distraught and paranoid step-mother to deal with.

"Jenny, you need to calm down. Johnny… I'm not going to say he's okay, I mean, you can't expect that right now, can you. Just give him some time and space and he'll be back before you know it."

After the call had ended, Carla was in no hurry to return indoors, to face her drunken maudlin father.

Instead, she revelled in the darkness of the night, the anonymity and insignificance that it brought as she looked up at the expanse of inky black sky littered with tiny pin-pricks of light; the stars of faraway mysterious galaxies. She wondered about Aidan, about the darkness that he must have felt to… to do what he did. She wondered if he had been scared; or maybe he had been relieved that his suffering was almost over.

Reluctantly, Carla turned to face her cottage. Her home; every other day her refuge, but today a place of pain and confusion as Johnny tried to come to terms with his son's suicide.

Carla sighed as she opened the terrace doors and made her way to the kitchen where, she had no doubt, Johnny would be nursing a glass of whisky.

True to form, Johnny was sat in his usual spot at Carla's kitchen table, glass of whisky held precariously in one hand; his head resting on his other hand, eyes closed, body swaying slightly.

"Johnny," Carla touched him gently on the shoulder. "You should get off to bed."

"Wha –?" Johnny managed to half open his eyes and squint at Carla.

Carla picked up the whisky bottle from the table and tried to prise the whisky glass out of Johnny's hand.

"No!" Johnny roared.

"Come on, Johnny, you've had enough."

In a show of defiance, Johnny gulped down the rest of the whisky in his glass, shuddering as the fiery amber liquid coursed down his throat.

"I'll say when I've had enough!"

He lunged for the whisky bottle in Carla's hand, but she snatched it out of his reach.

"Give it me!"

"You've had enough."

Johnny rose unsteadily to his feet.

"I said," Johnny gripped the neck of the bottle and tried to wrench it from Carla's hands. "Give it to me!"

Carla gave up; she released her grip on the bottle and watched sadly as Johnny poured himself another drink. She wanted to help him but, after a week of being his minder, his babysitter, she no longer had the energy.

"I'm going to bed," Carla turned and walked away.

She hated herself for thinking it, but she couldn't wait until her father returned home and left her in peace. "What's the point in living hundreds of miles from your family," Carla thought indignantly to herself. "If they take up indefinite residence in your spare room and drink all your booze?"

* * *

Johnny descended the stairs the next morning, gripping the railing as if his life depended on it, to the sizzle and aroma of frying bacon wafting up at him from the kitchen.

"Mornin'," Johnny croaked as he stumbled to the kitchen bench and leaned heavily on it.

"Good morning," Carla was deliberately cheerful. "How are you feeling?"

"Ugh," Johnny groaned. "I feel like death."

"I'm not surprised, the amount you put away last night."

"Was I… very bad?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Hmm…" Carla mentally weighed Johnny's apology against his previous night's misdemeanours. "Forget about it. Not like I haven't been there many many times myself."

"Thanks. I don't deserve it."

"No, you don't." It was tough talk time and Carla wasn't about to hold back. "Ya know, I had my fill of drunken abusive parents when I was kid."

"I wasn't abusive."

"Stop! I'm not arguing with you about semantics. Just know, I'm not putting up with it."

"Yeah, of course. I'm sorry."

"Coffee's in the pot," and with that, Carla accepted Johnny's apology, signalling to him that she wanted to move on.

Johnny shuffled unsteadily to the cupboard, took out a mug and poured himself a coffee from the machine. Sitting on a barstool, he gulped down the black gold, imbibing its revitalising powers, before turning his attention to the novel sight in front of him.

"Since when did you learn to cook?"

"Hey!" Carla warned him cheekily. "Any more of that and you won't be getting any."

"Is that a promise?"

"Very funny."

Carla presented Johnny with the best hangover cure known to man: fried bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, beans, and toast.

"You couldn't get any better at Roys."

"Thanks, love."

Carla busied herself with cleaning up while Johnny tucked into his breakfast. He found he was suddenly ravenous, barely taking a break from shovelling food into his mouth until the plate was almost empty.

Carla poured herself a coffee and perched on a bar stool opposite Johnny.

"So, today…"

"Ugh," Johnny groaned. "I think I'm gonna head back to bed."

"No, you don't. You're coming with me."

"I'm not, I can't, no."

"You need to get out of the house, get some fresh air, and stop wallowing."

"I've got a reason to wallow."

"Of course you do. I just… Aidan wouldn't want this for you."

"Then why did he kill himself?!"

Johnny's outburst reverberated around Carla's kitchen as she sat in silence, not wanting another argument.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." Johnny's contrition came on almost as suddenly as his rage. "Where are you going today?"

"You mean, where are we going?" Carla cheekily corrected him.

"Yes, fine," Johnny capitulated. "Where are _we_ going?"

* * *

Carla breathed in deeply; it was unmistakeably the scent of the agricultural countryside. The smell of earth, of fresh, clean air mingled with the pungent odour of cow dung.

"If you all jump back on the tractor, we'll head to the cheesery to see where the magic happens."

Carla emerged from her reverie and hurried to where Johnny, Brendan, and dairy farmer Clive, were climbing aboard a tractor.

Soon the foursome were bumping along a dirt track, through fields of cows, towards the cluster of farm buildings consisting of residence, cheesery and retail outlet. Clive was pointing out the sights along the way; the milking sheds where the cows were brought twice a day, the fields where the hay was grown, the shed where the hay was stored, how he managed his field rotation, the specific qualities of the Devon soil they would be able to taste in the cheese he was about to show them.

Brendan and, surprisingly, Johnny listened attentively to the farmer talking animatedly about his passion, but Carla let her mind wander.

She remembered the look on Brendan's face when he had handed the phone to her that day in the restaurant; she knew immediately that something was very wrong. But she never imagined that… It seemed no one had, no one knew what Aidan was thinking or feeling. Until it was too late.

Then there was the funeral back in Weatherfield, a place she had adamantly declared she would never visit again. But there she was once more, this time surrounded by a family in the depths of a grief as vast as it was unexpected.

The whole community was in shock at what had happened. Carla received sympathetic kindness from people who, two years ago, would have happily spat at her in the street.

And then there was Peter. No matter how many times he had tried to call her since that day, she refused to think about Peter; to think about that day, after the funeral.

No! For now, Carla's resolve held. Instead, she forced herself to listen to Clive soliloquise about the various processes in the cheesemaking journey.

* * *

"And this," Clive boasted proudly as he led them into a cool, dim room of substantial proportions crowded with numerous shelving units in neat rows, housing cheeses of different varieties, shapes and sizes. "Is where we age the cheese."

"That smell," Johnny grinned like a kid in a candy store.

"Surely this is what heaven smells like," Brendan gushed.

"You two," Carla rolled her eyes. "It's just cheese. No offence, Clive."

"None taken. Although, I have to agree with the lads on this one. Now, over to your right is where we store the cheeses that have a longer ageing process, the harder cheeses like blue and cheddar. And on the left are the shorter aged cheeses, and the fresh cheeses, like the washed rind cheeses that are typically aged about two months, the cream cheeses, typically coated in herbs or ash, our speciality is a nettle-coated cream cheese. If you'd like to follow me…"

Clive led them to a table that had been set up especially for them, with a variety of cheeses laid out ready for them to taste.

"Excuse me a minute," Carla pardoned herself from the group as she pulled her ringing mobile out of her handbag. "Unknown number."

"That'll be the debt collector!" Brendan called out after Carla.

"Ha ha. It's probably my builder, he said he was gonna call."

Carla hurried out of earshot before answering.

"Carla Connor."

"Please don't hang up."

Damn it! Peter Barlow had finally caught her.

* * *

Carla teetered down the Coronation Street cobbles, her sky-high stilettos not quite up to the task; whether it was the uneven terrain or the copious amounts of red wine in her system, Carla couldn't possibly guess.

Whatever the reason, the combination soon ended in disaster; her ankle turned and she fell, arse first onto the cold, hard ground.

Her first instinct was to sit there, in the middle of the street, and cry. That was, until she heard his voice.

"Carla!" Peter rushed over to where Carla was slumped on the ground. "Are you okay?"

She scrambled to her knees, refusing to show any weakness in front of him.

"Do one, Peter."

"Come on," Peter ignored her; he reached down and took hold of her arm to assist her to her feet.

"Get off me!" Carla angrily shook off Peter's grip.

"Fine," Peter held his hands in the air in surrender. "Have it your way."

Peter backed off and watched with amusement as a clearly intoxicated Carla struggled to her feet.

When she finally did, she walked away without a second glance at Peter. Undeterred, Peter jogged to catch up with her.

"Have you just come from the wake?" Peter regretted the question immediately. "Sorry, stupid question."

"Yeah, it is."

"Carla, don't be like this."

Carla stopped and turned to face Peter.

"Like what? Upset because we buried my brother this morning?"

"I'm sorry. I really am."

Carla laughed, a faintly hysterical laugh. "You thought it was because of you, didn't you?"

"I don't…" Peter shrugged, unsure of what to say. The truth was, he did think Carla's coldness was because of him.

"You are so arrogant."

Carla turned on her heel and once again strode away from Peter.

"Hold on, where are you going?"

"Away from here. Can't you take a hint and leave me alone!?"

"I don't think you should be on your own," Peter was honestly worried about Carla's safety. "At least let me give you a lift. Wherever you wanna go."

* * *

Carla stumbled into her hotel room, dropped her handbag on the floor and collapsed onto the bed.

"Carla?" Peter followed her into the room. He walked to the bed and, brushing the hair gently out of her face, whispered softly to her. "Carla, love?"

But Carla was fast asleep. There was only one thing Peter could in all conscience do.

* * *

Carla's eyelids felt so heavy, she didn't think she had the strength to open her eyes. Groaning with the effort, she managed to open them just a sliver. She waited while her eyes adjusted to, what felt to her, the brightest lights she had ever seen.

Slowly the room came into focus. She was in her hotel room, despite having no recollection of how she'd got there. Then she saw him – Peter – dozing in the armchair. She panicked; on instinct, she felt her body; her chest, her legs, but thankfully she was still fully dressed.

"Shower," was Carla's driving thought. She struggled out of bed and crept past Peter, his head lolling to one side, light snores emanating from him as his chest slowly rose and fell with every breath he took.

* * *

Peter stood in the middle of Carla's hotel room, shuffling nervously from side to side, anticipating with trepidation Carla's entrance. He had woken to find the bed empty; the sound of the shower from the ensuite next door the only clue to her whereabouts.

But the shower had been turned off almost five minutes previous; with every passing second that Peter waited, his anxiety levels were skyrocketing.

He didn't know what to expect. Sure, she'd been cold and even hostile earlier, but she had been drunk at the time. He hoped that sobriety had taken the edge off her attitude towards him.

The door opened and Carla entered the room, dressed in a fluffy white robe, her freshly washed hair hanging down her back, her face, scrubbed free from makeup, was glowing.

Peter had only the briefest moment to admire Carla's natural beauty, for him to acknowledge his intense desire for her, before she turned on him.

"You still here?"

"I wanted to make sure you were okay. I care about you."

"Well, I hate you."

"That's okay. I understand."

"You understand?" Carla stopped and turned to confront Peter. "I told you I hated you. Are you just gonna stand there and take it?!"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I deserve it."

"What the hell happened to you? Hmm?" Carla closed the gap between them; she wanted to look him dead in the eyes. "The Peter I knew wouldn't back down without a fight."

"I don't want to fight you, Carla. I've changed."

Carla laughed. "You've changed?"

"Yes."

"You sure have," Carla was on a mission now to push Peter, to poke and to prod him, until she forced a reaction from him. "You've got old, Peter. Weak. You've been tamed, haven't you? By that wallflower you're shacked up with. What did she do? Bore you into submission?"

"Carla, don't do this, please."

"I don't even recognise you any more," Carla sneered at Peter. "You might've been a drunken cheating liar when we were together, but at least you had some fire inside you. What've you got now? Nothing!"

Carla turned to walk away from Peter; he grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him once more. With his other arm, he reached around her waist and pulled her body into his.

For a moment that felt like an eternity to Carla and Peter, time stood still, they stood still, their faces inches apart, lips inches apart. They could feel each other's breath on their faces, the heat of their bodies, the beating of their hearts.

And then they kissed; with passion, desire, anger.

Their lips collided, mouths opened, hungry tongues forced inside the other's mouth, exploring the hot, wet space within, wrestling with the other's tongue for dominance, for victory in this fiery battle.

The bristles of Peter's beard scratched against Carla's smooth delicate skin as he showered her lips, her cheek, jawline, neck, everywhere he could reach, with lustful wet kisses.

Carla's hands reached around Peter's neck; her fingers raked through his hair. With one hand, Peter kept a tight grip on Carla's waist; the other skimmed over her lower back and rested on her arse cheeks, giving them a cheeky squeeze.

As if moving with one body, one mind, they stepped to the bed and fell back onto it. Loosening the tie of Carla's robe, Peter pushed the fabric back to expose Carla's body. He gazed in awe at the sight before him, a sight that had been hidden from him for four long years. His eyes travelled down from her face, over her chest, her breasts jiggling slightly as she panted under the influence of her awakened desire, over her taught stomach and down to that part of her body between her thighs that he wanted so desperately to be inside.

He looked back up at Carla's face; she stared back at him, a devilish look of pure lust on her face. Grinning back at her, he ripped off his clothes as fast as he could. She watched him with growing excitement and anticipation, gazing with salacious desire at the tattoos adorning his chest and arms; then, as he dropped his jeans and his boxers to the floor, she stared greedily at his cock, already erect, hard and throbbing, ready to pleasure her, to penetrate her.

* * *

Peter watched Carla sleeping peacefully as he hastily dressed, being extra careful not to wake her. He tentatively approached her and, leaning over her, gently kissed her on the cheek, before tip-toeing towards the hotel room door. He opened it and, after looking back at Carla one last time, walked through it, shutting the door firmly behind him.

* * *

"What do you want, Peter?" Carla spoke quietly into her mobile, she didn't want Brendan or Johnny to overhear; but there could be no mistaking her seething anger.

"I wanted to talk about, you know, what happened."

"Don't you think you kinda missed the whole talking window when you left my bed without saying goodbye?"

"I know, I feel awful about that. I'm sorry."

"You just upped and left," Carla couldn't hide her hurt, no matter how desperately she wanted to. "Without a word, Peter. Not one word."

"I don't want you to think I left like that because I regretted what happened. Because I didn't regret it. I don't! If you'll just let me explain."

Carla laughed.

"Right, okay, you think it's funny."

"I do actually. I think it's hilarious. Side-splitting. To think that you could come up with an excuse that I haven't heard from you time and time again. I've heard 'em all, Peter. You know, I thought I'd learned my lesson where you were concerned. More fool me, ey? But, believe me when I tell you, I am done listening to your excuses."

"Carla, please," Peter was desperate.

"Peter. Don't call me again. Forget my number. Forget my name. Hell, forget you ever met me. Because, you know what? That's exactly what I plan on doing with you."

Before Peter had a chance to protest, Carla ended the call.

* * *

Carla breathed deeply, in and out, in a desperate and futile attempt to compose herself before returning to the cheese tasting. But she couldn't control the tears that insisted on falling down her cheeks. She rushed out of the cheesery door and into the sunshine and refreshing air of the farmyard.

As she tried to make sense of everything Peter had said, everything she had said, Bella's question from the night before kept reverberating through her mind.

"Are you still in love with him?"

Carla's immediate reaction had been a defiant "No!" but, if she was being completely honest, the answer, as terrified as it made her, was a resounding yes.

This realisation didn't help her; she chastised herself for being weak and pathetic for continuing to love a man who had cheated on her, lied to her countless times, let her down again and again.

"Put it in a box and bury it deep."

That was it; that was what she would do. She'd done it before, so she could do it again. She had no choice.

* * *

Peter felt like he was being ripped in two. He wanted Carla, he knew that; he wanted her, loved her, more in that moment than he ever had in the past. But he had to think about Susie; his daughter.

He was determined to be a good father to Susie, no matter the cost to himself. He was willing to make whatever sacrifice was needed to make sure her life was happy and secure, with two loving parents.

Even if that sacrifice was Carla. He would pay the price; he wished with all his heart that she didn't have to pay the same price.

Sure, he didn't love Toyah like he loved Carla; he knew he never would. But, if there was one thing that he was certain of, it was that Toyah would make a good, loving mother to his daughter.

Opening the door to the back room of the Rovers, Peter watched on as Toyah cuddled Susie, her head lowered as she gazed lovingly at her daughter. This life would do for him. It had to.

Sensing his presence, Toyah looked up to face Peter. It was only now that Peter could see the tears in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Peter was suddenly fearful. There was something about Toyah, something about the look in her eyes, the resolve on her face, that he'd never seen before.

"We need to talk."


	6. Chapter 6: Off the wagon - Part I

**Chapter 6: Off the wagon – Part I**

Alan sighed wearily as he sat down at the attendant's station in the middle carriage of the train that was now snaking its way through the English countryside. This was the first opportunity he'd had since the train had departed London to sit down and relax and he planned to savour every moment of his break; every sip of the steaming mug of tea he had placed on the table in front of him, and every bite of the decadent custard slice that beckoned to him almost seductively. He routinely ate two custard cream biscuits with his evening tea, but tonight he had decided to treat himself to something special.

He closed his eyes as he raised the mug to his lips and sipped the invigorating nectar. His mouth now well lubricated, Alan gingerly picked up the custard slice, his eyes like saucers in anticipation, the smooth pink icing –

"Quick, you have to come!"

Temporarily speechless, Alan stared up at the woman, his custard slice poised in mid-air in front of his gaping mouth.

"Come on!" The woman panted impatiently, breathless from her quest to find an authority figure. "They're gonna kill each other!"

Alan stared in the direction the woman was now frantically waving as if the answer to his current dilemma would materialise as if by magic before him. Checking tickets, answering timetable questions, even dealing with irate passengers when trains were delayed; those sorts of problems he could deal with. But break up a fight? Alan inwardly baulked at the thought.

"Are you coming or not?"

"Umm, yes, of course." Alan rose hesitantly to his feet.

"This way," the woman pointed and waited for Alan to take the lead.

* * *

Alan made short work of assessing the situation. A man, a very drunk man, looking for a fight, picking a fight with anyone and everyone.

"Excuse me, sir, but I must insist that you calm down."

"I am perfectly calm…_sir_," the drunk swayed as he gaped at Alan through blurry eyes, red and swollen, unable to focus. "You, _sir_," the drunk poked Alan in the chest. "_You_ need to calm down."

"Please don't touch me, sir."

But this just egged the man on; he poked Alan in the chest again.

"Don't!"

"Don't what?" He poked him again, delighted with his little game, this time in the arm.

"I've asked you politely not to –" Another poke, this time on his cheek. "Stop it!"

But the drunk wouldn't stop; not only did he continuously poke the train attendant, he began to move forward as he did so, causing Alan to step back, on the back foot, always reacting.

"Sir! I must insist that you stop!"

"Stop what?" The drunk laughed raucously. But then his demeanour abruptly changed, as if someone had flicked a switch. He clapped his hands on Alan's shoulders and, leaning forward – for a moment Alan feared the man was about to kiss him – rested his forehead on the attendant's chest as his laughter turned into sobs so violent his whole body shuddered with the force of his emotion.

"Right!"

Alan seized his opportunity; he grabbed hold of the man's wrists and, spinning him around, slammed him up against the wall.

The man, bereft of his drunken bravado, felt his legs buckle beneath him; he slid down the wall and collapsed onto the floor in a pathetic heap, his face contorted into a grotesque mask of mingled laughter and tears.

* * *

The moment Alan slammed the train door on the drunk he had just tossed out of the train, his thoughts returned almost immediately to his tea and custard slice. With a self-satisfied smile, Alan ambled down the corridor, his body swaying in harmony with the movement of the train as it rumbled out of the station, on course once again, after its unscheduled stop, headed towards its final destination.

Left behind by the train, crouched on his hands and knees on the cold, dark station platform, the drunk slowly pulled himself to his feet. Unsteady, his legs like jelly, he staggered out of the station and stumbled blindly through the village, with its residents slumbering safely inside their homes, unaware of the desperate soul that was wandering, lost and alone, in their midst.

Losing his footing, the drunk faltered in the dark and fell, his descent broken by some shrubbery. He fought his way through the undergrowth, the small, sharp branches scratching his skin and tearing the fabric of his clothes, until he found himself in the open air, an expanse of grass, cold and damp, stretched out before him.

He sunk down onto the grass and, throwing himself prostrate to the ground, broke down in sobs as he surrendered to his despair.

* * *

Carla reached out to her bedside table and felt blindly for her mobile phone, silently cursing her as yet unknown caller. Bleary eyed, she squinted at the screen; it was 1:18 am.

"'Ello?"

"Carla?" came the mumbled reply, almost incoherent to Carla, her mind only partially present in the conscious world.

"Who's this?"

"Carla? Are you there?"

A glimmer of recognition.

"Peter? Is that you?"

No reply, just a sharp intake of breath followed by a shuddering sob.

Like a shot, Carla sat up in bed; an icy chill swept through her body, fear gripped her heart.

"Peter, what's wrong?"

"Help me," Peter begged.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Yes," a small, plaintive voice, before he broke down in tears, sobbing down the line.

"Where are you, darlin'?" Carla tried to remain calm, despite her rising panic at the desperation in Peter's voice.

"I don't know."

"Umm, okay. Are you at home?"

"No."

"Did you, umm, I dunno, did you walk somewhere?"

"Train," Peter slurred.

"What was that?"

"Train! I caught a train!"

"Okay, that's great, you're doing great. Are you on the train now?"

"No. Oh, god, I'm gonna be sick."

Carla held the phone from her ear; the first tears escaped her eyes and fell silently down her cheeks as she listened to the faint sounds of Peter vomiting.

"Ugh," Peter moaned, a truly pathetic sound.

"Peter, are you okay?"

"No. Please help me."

"I'm gonna help you, baby. I need you to tell me where you are."

"I don't know," Peter sobbed.

"Look around you. Can you see any signs? Any landmarks? Anything at all?"

"It's dark. Carla, I'm scared."

"I know, baby. I'm gonna come get you." Carla desperately tried to think of a way to find him. "Listen, Peter, I need you to open the map app on your phone. Okay? Then take a screenshot of the map showing where you are. Then send it to me. Can you do that?"

"Umm… Yeah? I'll, umm, I'll call you back."

"No, no! Peter, no! You don't have to hang up to –"

But it was too late; Peter had already ended the call. Carla prayed that Peter had enough wits about him to carry out this simple task. Until then, all Carla could do was wait.

She strolled to her bedroom window, where the moonlight was spilling into the room and bathing it in a comfortingly luminous light, and wondered where in the wide world Peter was now. Was he okay? Had he caused himself irreparable damage? Moreover, what terrible thing had happened to drive him back to the drink?

Beep beep.

An incoming message. Carla wasted no time in opening the message; her instant elation at seeing that it was a photo soon dissipated when she saw that it was a selfie, obviously taken in error, of Peter's face viewed from below, the camera looking right up his nose.

"Oh, Peter."

Beep beep.

A new incoming message. Another photo. A blur of faint lights across a black sky.

Beep beep.

Finally, a screenshot. Of Peter's home screen; icons over a photograph of a baby, presumably Susie. Carla's stomach did a strange sort of backflip on seeing this photograph of Peter's daughter. His daughter with someone else.

"Peter Barlow, you useless technophobe!"

Beep beep.

"I swear, if this is another…"

But it wasn't; Peter had managed, after a few false starts, to successfully carry out Carla's instructions.

Now that Carla knew where he was, she sprang immediately into action. She was going to find Peter and she was going to bring him home.

* * *

Carla drove as fast as she dared along the narrow winding lanes of the Devon countryside, desperate to reach Peter before something terrible happened.

"Come on," a frustrated Carla willed Peter to answer the call she had placed as soon as she was on the road.

"Carla?" Peter's voice reverberated around the car's interior thanks to her high-tech speaker system.

"Peter, I'm coming to get you, okay? So you need to stay where you are. Do not move. Do you understand? Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"You stay put, okay?"

"Okay."

"Are you safe there?"

"Umm, I dunno? Yeah?"

"Are you warm? Do you have a coat on?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Carla breathed a sigh of relief. "You just stay there, okay? Don't move. Just… talk to me, yeah? Talk to me until I get there."

* * *

"I don't know why," the obvious pain in Peter's voice broke Carla's heart as she listened to his drunken ramblings. "Why did they do it? Carla? Why?"

"I don't know, darlin'." The truth was, Carla had no idea what Peter was talking about. "I don't know."

"I gave up everything I wanted. _You_ know. Don't you? For what? A knife to the heart. That's what! Straight through my heart. Like a dagger!"

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry."

"You think I deserve it, don't you…?"

"Oh, no –"

"But I do. I've done so many bad things. I did bad things to you." Peter started crying again. "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry."

"Baby, it's okay. Please don't –"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm –"

Silence.

"Peter?" Carla waited, but Peter didn't reply. "Peter, are you there?"

Carla dialled Peter's number again, but the call went straight to voice mail.

"Peter? I don't know what happened, I hope it was just your battery, but… please don't do anything… stupid, you know. I'm gonna be there soon, okay? Just, please hang on."

Carla pressed her foot down on the accelerator pedal just that little bit harder and sped away into the night.

* * *

Carla locked the car and turned to face what looked like a park or public gardens of some kind. She tried to call Peter's mobile but once again was diverted straight away to his voice mail. So, switching on her phone's torch function, Carla entered the gardens.

"Peter!?"

Carla called out for Peter as she swept the torchlight back and forth over the grounds, from the manicured lawn, to the prim garden beds brimming with colour-coordinated flower displays, to the ornamental lake she could see in the distance, the moonlight bouncing hypnotically off the water.

The lake! Her heart almost stopped at the thought that Peter might have wandered to the lake and… No! She couldn't think like that; she couldn't give up hope.

"Peter!?"

She called out for him again and, yet again, was met with silence.

"Oh, Peter, where are you?"

Then she saw it; the dim silhouette of a small structure nestled between some trees. She took a few hurried steps towards it before she figured out what it was; a gazebo.

She broke into a run now, desperate to find out…whatever there was to find out. She flashed the light into the shadowy interior and immediately saw him.

Peter was sprawled on the floor of the gazebo; at best, passed out drunk, at worst…she couldn't contemplate that thought.

"Peter!" She crouched down next to his motionless body and, lifting his head off the cold, hard floor, cradled it gently in her hands. "Peter, come on, baby, wake up."

"Ughhh…" a guttural moan escaped Peter's lips.

"Peter?" Carla stroked his hair gently with one hand, with the other she cupped his cheek in her palm. "You're okay, baby, you're gonna be okay."

Peter's eyes flickered, then slowly opened to gaze up at Carla.

"Carla," Peter croaked hoarsely. "You came."

"Of course I came," Carla sobbed with relief. "I'll always come if you need me."

"Thank you."

Carla nodded, not trusting herself for the moment to speak.

"Come on," when she had recovered her composure. "I'm taking you home."

* * *

"Peter, I need you to help me out here."

Carla had half-guided, half-dragged Peter from her car to the interior of her cottage but struggled under Peter's dead weight to get him safely up the stairs.

"Peter, come on," Carla begged in frustration.

"Carla," Peter opened his eyes and gazed at Carla. "You're so beautiful. Mmmm…"

"Yes, but I don't have superhuman strength, Peter, so if you could, you know, lift your feet?!"

Peter looked down at his feet then back up at Carla in confusion.

"Lift… look." Carla looked down at her own feet and showed Peter what to do. "Lift your right foot and put it on this step."

Peter watched Carla and copied her, lifting his foot and placing on the step above.

"That's it, you've got it. Now, we're gonna do our left foot, yeah?"

Slowly but surely, Carla and Peter climbed the remainder of the stairs, at which point Carla hastily directed him to her spare room, where he promptly collapsed onto the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

"Right."

Carla surveyed the scene. Shoes. Carla pulled Peter's shoes and socks off, grimacing at the smell that hit her as his bare feet came to light. Jacket. But, no matter how much she wrestled with Peter's unconscious body, she couldn't remove his jacket. He'd have to sleep in it.

By the bed, she placed an empty bucket – just in case – and a clean towel. On the bedside table, she placed a glass of water. Over his body, she draped a blanket.

Finally, she sat on the edge of the bed and, using a warm, wet flannel, she gently washed his face. She stroked his face, tracing the lines that ran across his forehead, that radiated out from his eyes, that would crinkle in the sexiest way when he smiled. Even after four years, Carla knew every line on Peter's face, could recall touching each one, kissing each one.

Carla leaned over Peter's body and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. She began to pull away but, instinctively she leaned back into him and kissed him again, this time on the lips.

Leaving him to sleep off the booze, Carla stood and padded softly to the door. Switching the light off, she turned back to watch him for a moment, bathed in the same moonlight that earlier she had stood in alone, gazing out at the world, wondering where he was, if he was safe. Now she knew; he was safe.

"Good night, Peter."


	7. Chapter 7: Off the wagon - Part II

**Chapter 7: Off the wagon – Part II**

Carla trudged wearily down the stairs and into the kitchen where she reached, out of habit, for the whisky bottle. It was only after she had poured herself a glass and taken that first sip, that she realised the danger. She knew she couldn't put this off; she needed to take action. Now.

On a mission, Carla searched her kitchen, her living room, her cellar, everywhere she could think of, and retrieved every last bottle of alcohol in her possession, stockpiling it on her kitchen table.

Her mission complete, Carla stood back and surveyed her haul. There was no way she was pouring all that lot down the sink. What a waste! But she couldn't risk Peter stumbling onto it either.

She had it! She packed all of her booze into carrier bags and lugged them out to her car where she loaded them safely into the boot.

Pleased with her solution, Carla returned to the kitchen to finish off her glass of whisky before heading back up to bed for what little was left of the night.

* * *

"It's just a few days," Carla paced her kitchen, mobile phone pressed to her ear, as she tried to explain to her head chef, Brendan, why she wouldn't be coming to work. "I need to…"

"What?" Brendan, never one to bow to workplace hierarchies, quizzed his boss fearlessly. "What is it that you need to do?"

"Umm…" Carla hesitated, uncertain about how much to reveal. "It's Peter."

"Oh, now there's a surprise."

"Shut up you!" Carla was used to Brendan's sarcasm. She glanced towards the stairs and, careful to keep her voice low, decided to be honest. "Peter, umm… he's an alcoholic. He was a recovering alcoholic but, umm… as of last night, he's a relapsed alcoholic. So… he's, umm… he's… staying here. With me."

"Right," Brendan wondered what kind of hold this Peter Barlow had over Carla. "Remind me again, what has any of that got to do with you?"

"Well…"

"I mean, he's your ex-husband. Emphasis on the _ex_. He's not your concern anymore."

"That's not true," Carla was immediately defensive. "Just because we're divorced, doesn't mean I don't still care about him."

"If you say so."

"I do."

"Good."

"So… I'll print out tonight's menus."

"And I'll send Bella round to pick them up."

* * *

Carla ran her eyes over the menus as they were spat out, one by one, from the printer in her home office.

…tomato consommé with basil oil…deep fried whitebait…whole baked turbot with pickled samphire…beef fillet carpaccio with some of that fresh horseradish Brendan had dug up from the restaurant garden yesterday…a Perry and poached pear cheesecake using cream cheese from the dairy farm they'd visited last week…

Carla's mouth watered as she read the menu; one of the perks of owning her own restaurant was having her dinner cooked for her by a world-class chef. But tonight, she lamented, she'd have to fend for herself.

With a sigh, she bundled the menus together and set them aside, ready for Bella to collect.

Her work essentially done for the day, Carla stood idly by her office door, contemplating her next move. She couldn't go out, to the beach, or for a drive in the countryside, stopping off at any pub that took her fancy, like she normally would on her days off. Not with Peter still asleep upstairs.

She looked at her watch; just after 2pm. It was time she checked on Peter.

* * *

Carla gently pushed the spare room door open and peeked inside.

There he was; sleeping like an angelic baby, at complete odds with the drunken mess he had been not twelve hours earlier.

Entering the room, Carla padded quietly over to the bed and sat down on the edge, careful not to disturb Peter.

"You stupid fool," as she gently caressed his cheek. "What were you thinking?"

She rose from the bed and, walking to the window, stood and stared out of it, lost in a silent reverie; memories of the past came flooding back, memories of her past with Peter, and thoughts of what the future might bring if they were very very lucky.

"Hey," a raspy croak from the bed behind her.

She spun around; Peter was awake.

"Hey yourself," Carla hurried to Peter's bedside. "How're you feeling?"

"Ugh…!"

"That good, ey?"

"Paracetamol?"

"Sure," Carla hurried to fulfil Peter's request and soon returned not just with the paracetamol but also with a mug of strong black coffee.

"Oh, you're an angel," as Peter gratefully accepted the coffee and took a sip. "Mmmm…"

Meanwhile, Carla settled into the armchair stationed in the corner of the room and waited.

"So…" Peter finally began with more than a little hesitation; his memory of the previous night was sketchy at best.

"So…" Carla countered.

"I'm sorry?"

"What for?" Carla had to work hard to stifle a laugh.

"I'm not sure," Peter confessed with a smile. "I just assumed I did something offensive last night."

"You were fine. Considering."

"Considering what?"

"Considering you were completely wasted."

"Right," Peter pondered this for a moment. "So, you don't know why…you know, I, umm… fell off the wagon?"

"No idea," Carla stated, matter-of-fact. "You don't have to tell me, you know. I mean, it's none of my business."

"I want to tell you."

"Then I'm listening."

"Come here," Peter held out his hand to Carla, beckoning her to his bedside. She didn't hesitate to close the distance between them, once again perching on the edge of the bed and taking Peter's outstretched hand in her own.

"Umm…" Now that it came down to it, Peter was at a loss how to begin. "You know Susie? What am I saying, of course you know Susie. My daughter." Peter laughed; not a happy or an amused laugh, but a bitter laugh, a laugh that spoke of the cruelty of life. "Or so I thought."

Peter looked up at Carla; she could see the tears forming in his eyes and wanted to say something to comfort him, to let him know he wasn't alone, but she knew instinctively that he needed to speak, to get it all out, without interruption.

"She's not mine, Carla. She's not my daughter."

And so Carla listened in silence, stroking Peter's hand, as he recounted every last detail of Toyah's deception; of how she'd lied to him, kept the death of his baby from him, watched as he fell in love with a child that wasn't his own, that was nothing to him. Of how that baby he adored wasn't his daughter, she was her niece; Carla's. Susie was Aidan and Eva's daughter.

For the first time in Carla's life, she was rendered utterly speechless; the thought that her brother was a father floored her completely; that he could have done what he'd done, knowing that he'd be leaving his daughter without a father, was a concept she could not comprehend. But, for now, Carla pushed all thoughts of Aidan to one side; she would deal with them later. Right now, she had to focus on the man in front of her; she had to focus on Peter.

"I'm so sorry," Carla squeezed his hand gently. "You didn't deserve that."

"I really loved her."

"I know you did, darlin'."

"I don't know what to do, Carla." Peter's face crumpled as the fear and the doubt began to take over. "Tell me what to do."

"Come here," Carla pulled Peter into her arms. He dropped his head to her breast and sobbed in desperation and anguish. "It's okay, it's gonna be okay."

Carla didn't know how long they sat there, Peter like a frightened child in Carla's arms, while she gently rocked him back and forth, as his sobs slowly subsided; she would sit with him all day and all night if he needed her. But the decision was taken from her hands when the front doorbell chimed, its jingle echoing up the stairs, signalling a new arrival.

"Peter?" Carla gently rubbed Peter's back. "I'm sorry, I have to get that. It'll be Bella."

"From the restaurant?" Peter disentangled himself from Carla's embrace and leaned back against the pillows.

"Yeah, that's right. I forgot you'd met her."

"Oh, I'm sorry Carla, I'm such a selfish prat. I'm messing up your day, your work. Give me a minute and I'll get out of your hair."

"No, don't you dare move a muscle."

"But –"

"No arguments, mister! You are staying here as long as you need."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," as the doorbell chimed again. "You rest up and, umm, why don't I call your dad, let him know where you are."

"No." Peter was definite.

"Peter, he'll be worried. So will Simon."

"I can't face them, Carla, not yet. I'm not ready."

The doorbell chimed yet again, followed by a faint "Carla! Carla! You there?"

"Promise me, Carla," Peter demanded. "Promise you won't call him. Don't call anyone."

"I have to get the door," Carla was non-committal.

* * *

"What the hell kept you?" Bella was comfortable enough with Carla to walk into her home uninvited.

"Long story," Carla sighed. "You are staying for a brew, aren't you?"

"What do you think?" Bella held in the air, as if in triumph after battle, the pastry box she'd been carrying. "Brendan sent you some of tonight's cheesecake which, as a friend, I can't let you eat all alone."

Carla lifted the lid and peeked inside. "Ooh, is this the Perry and poached pear one?"

"The very same," Bella led the way into the kitchen. "Come on then, I'm desperate for a gossip.

* * *

"Brendan had a go at me earlier."

Carla and Bella were sat opposite each other at Carla's kitchen table, a brew and a slice of cheesecake in front of each of them.

"So?" Bella laughed. "What's new?"

"He doesn't understand why I'm looking after Peter."

"I'm sorry, babes, but I'm with Brendan on this one."

"Gee, thanks."

"Go on then, tell me," Bella challenged Carla. "Why have you got your cheating, lying, alcoholic ex-husband upstairs in your spare room? Unless, of course, he's bunking up with you?"

Carla chose to ignore Bella's insinuation.

"Because… I dunno. How can I not after…?"

Bella trusted her intuition and didn't push for more information; she simply waited for Carla to continue.

Carla took a deep breath and exhaled loudly before making her confession.

"When I went back to Weatherfield for Aidan's funeral, I, umm…I slept with Peter."

"Ooh," Bella leaned forward, thirsty for all the salacious details. "Do tell… How was it?"

"Bella! That is not the point!" But still, Carla couldn't help but smirk at the memory. "It was pretty good actually. Amazing. Until I woke up, that is, and found out he'd legged it."

"What a bastard!"

"Yeah," Carla murmured in agreement. "Total bastard."

"Oh my god! That's why he was so desperate to talk to you. Why he kept calling the restaurant."

"He wanted to explain. Make up some excuse more like it."

"So… what did he say? What was his excuse?"

"I dunno. I didn't give him a chance, didn't want to hear his lies. Told him to do one."

"Well… sounds like he deserved it."

"Yeah."

"Carla? Can I ask you a question?"

"Can I stop you?"

"Ha ha!" Bella grinned. "Are you in love with Peter?"

Carla took her time in answering; she hadn't admitted this out loud for years. But, if she was being completely honest, she was relieved to finally tell someone, to put her feelings into words.

"Yes. I am in love with Peter Barlow."

"Oh, you poor cow."

The two friends simply looked at each other and simultaneously burst into peals of laughter.

* * *

Carla paced the length and breadth of her stone-flagged terrace as the sun slowly set over the distant fields. She glanced up at her spare bedroom window, to where she knew Peter was sleeping.

She hadn't promised him she wouldn't call, she reasoned. And yet she still felt it would be a betrayal. Despite everything, her sense of loyalty to Peter remained strong.

But then she thought back to the previous night; the blind panic, the terror at fearing the worst had happened to Peter. Suddenly she knew what she had to do; even if Peter never spoke to her again, she was convinced she was doing the right thing.

Carla walked away from the cottage, over the grass and towards the path that led to the beach, anxious to get a safe distance from the house before she made the call, not wanting to risk Peter overhearing the conversation.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she dialled a number, pressed the phone to her ear and waited.

"Peter?" A panicked voice on the end of the line. "Is that you?"

"No, Ken. It's Carla."

"Carla?" Ken was taken aback. "What do you want?"

"It's Peter, he –"

"You've spoken to him? How is he?"

"Ken. Give me a chance to speak, yeah?"

"I'm sorry. Please, go on."

"Peter's here, at my place."

"In Devon? I don't understand. Why…?"

"He, umm, he called me in the middle of the night." Carla wished with all her heart that she didn't have to say those next few words to her former father-in-law. "I'm sorry, Ken, there's no easy way to say this, but, umm… he'd been drinking."

"Oh, Peter." Ken sighed. "I'd hoped he was strong enough to resist temptation, but the shock, I guess it was too much for him. Did he tell you what happened?"

"Yeah, he did."

"How is he?"

"He's fine, he's still in bed, sleeping it off."

"Thank goodness for that," Ken felt his heart start beating again after the initial shock. "What's your address, Carla? I'm coming down to get him."

"Oh, Ken, I'm not sure –"

"Carla," Ken was determined. "This is my son. You know what the doctors said would happen if he had another drink. I need to be there."

"Yeah, of course you do. You got a pen?"

* * *

Carla placed a mug of coffee and a plate of dry toast on the little table that nestled between the two deck chairs she kept on the terrace.

"You should try and eat something."

"Oh, I dunno," Peter eyeballed the toast warily from his deck chair as Carla sat down on the other. "My stomach is still very, umm… delicate."

"Well, it's there if you want it."

"Thanks." Peter smiled appreciatively at Carla as he took a sip of coffee. "I can't believe I slept so long."

"You obviously needed it," Carla observed wisely. "And I'm not just talking about the hangover. You don't have just an emotional reaction to such devastating news. Your body needed time to physically recover from the shock."

"Hmm…," mused Peter reflectively. "I guess so."

They sat together in a companionable silence, basking in the morning sunlight, each staring out over the fields and picturing in their minds the crash of the waves on the distant shore, almost believing they could hear the hypnotic sounds of the rhythm of the water, sucked out by the tide before being tossed back onto the sand in a tempest of frothy white surf.

"Carla," Peter was the first to break the magical spell of the tranquil Devon landscape. "I don't know how I'll ever thank you for everything you've done for me."

"Don't even mention it."

"It's good of you, especially, you know, after how we left things between us."

"Peter, let's not… not right now."

"Okay," Peter lapsed into silence once more. Despite the lingering tension between him and Carla, he felt strangely at peace here, in her home; safe.

"I don't know what to do," Peter glanced uncertainly at Carla. He desperately wanted to stay but, uncertain about Carla's feelings, didn't want to assume anything. "Where to go."

Carla turned to face Peter; Peter's heart suddenly pounded against his chest with gathering dread at the sight of Carla's face staring back at him with a solemnity that terrified him.

"You know you can't stay here," Carla explained.

"What? Are you kicking me out?"

"No, no, of course not," Carla tried to reassure him. "You need to go to rehab, darlin'."

"Oh, no," Peter's face fell with dismay at the prospect. "Please no. Not again. I can't. I just can't."

"Peter," Carla reasoned with him. "Think about Simon."

"He'd be better off without me."

"Oh no," Carla was having none of it. "No feeling sorry for yourself."

"Why not? I'm weak. And pathetic.

"That's not true and you know it," Carla reached out and took Peter's hand in hers. "You had a stumble and no one can blame you after everything. But, darlin', you need to get on top of this straight away. For Simon's sake. He needs you, Peter… I need you."

Peter turned to face Carla, his cheeks now damp with the tears that were freely flowing. He tried to read the look in her eyes. What was it? Concern for a friend? A sense of duty maybe? Or was it something more? But he couldn't tell. All he knew with any certainty was that when he was with Carla he could face anything, conquer everything; the thought that she wanted to send him away was almost unbearable.

"Listen, there's a place nearby, it's got a great reputation."

"Probably costs a fortune."

"Don't worry about that."

"Oh no, no, no, absolutely not!"

"What other choice have you got?"

"Carla, I can't let you –"

"It's up to me how I spend my money. Okay? And if I wanna blow it on some miserable alchy who doesn't know what's good for him, then that's my problem, innit."

"But –"

"No arguments, Mr Barlow."

They stared at each other, each silently willing the other to back down in a fierce battle of wills. But Peter, in his heart, knew that Carla was right, no matter how much his pride was screaming in opposition.

"Fine," he wasn't about to back down with any grace. "You win."

"Don't I always?" Carla smirked.

"I should know better after all these years, ey?" Peter couldn't help but laugh. "Thank you."

Peter placed his hand over Carla's; the warmth of his hand on hers, the soft pressure as he gave her hand a friendly squeeze caused some very unexpected and frankly unwanted flutters in Carla's tummy. Was it a friendly squeeze? Or was it more? Carla chastised herself for overanalysing the situation. What mattered right now was getting Peter better; that was it, nothing more. But still, Carla's mind, and her heart, kept wandering into the realms of "what if".

"They're expecting you this afternoon," Carla was desperate to break the tension that, with every passing moment, was growing between her and Peter. "So…"

"You've already called them?"

"I've been here before, Peter. With you. I know how this ends."

"I don't have any of my stuff, clothes, toothbrush."

"Your dad's bringing a bag for you."

"My dad? You called my dad?"

"Of course I called him."

"Carla! You promised!"

"Actually, I didn't." No matter how much she felt the righteousness of her actions, Carla couldn't bear to see the look of disappointment on Peter's face. "Don't expect me to apologise either."

"I can't believe you did this!" Peter rose to his feet and, in disgust, walked away from Carla before turning back to reproach her once more. "I thought you understood."

"I do. Of course I do."

"Don't! Don't you dare say you understand!" Peter's almost snarled the words but, almost immediately, his anger turned to grief and regret. "Do you know how long I'd been sober for? How hard I'd worked. Not just to stay sober, but to make him proud of me. That's why I didn't want him to know. He's going to be so disappointed, Carla. I can't cope with that. I can't cope with the look of disappointment on his face. I can't, I just can't."

"You don't give me enough credit, son."

Peter turned, shocked to see his father stood on the terrace, newly arrived after his long journey.

"Dad?" Peter's voice wavered. "I'm sorry."

Ken strode to his son and, reaching out to him, held his face between his hands, directing his face to his own, and looked him in the eye.

"I am proud of you, Peter. Always."

"But I failed, dad," Peter sobbed. "I'm a failure."

"No, you got knocked down. But look at you, you're getting up, you're fighting back. That's the only thing that matters."

"Oh, dad."

Peter flung his arms around his dad and broke down in tears, sobbing on his shoulder. Ken held his son, stroking his back, comforting him, showing him the love that Peter had always craved.

* * *

"Where has he got to?" Ken looked at his watch, then back at the cottage. "What time are they expecting him?"

"There's no set time," Carla reassured Ken. "No need to hurry."

'Hmmm…" Even so, Ken was anxious to get Peter to rehab, and to safety, as quickly as possible.

"Hey, maybe he's done a runner," Carla tried to lighten the mood. "Don't worry, he can't have got far around here on foot. We'll track him down, tie him up next time."

Carla smiled but, on seeing Ken's serious face, quickly suppressed her mirth.

"Sorry, Ken, it's a joke, you know, to release the tension…"

"It's okay," Ken couldn't help but smile. "I do appreciate everything you're doing for Peter. Everything you've already done."

"It's nothing, really," Carla tried to make light of her efforts.

"I mean it, Carla," Ken reached out and placed a hand on Carla's shoulder. "Without you… I dread to think what might have happened. Thank you."

Carla smiled; Ken's approval had always meant a lot to her. Divorcing Peter had been doubly hard because it had meant losing his family from her life as well as her husband. Having Ken here, in her home, almost felt like old times. Almost.

"Right, then," Peter came strolling casually towards the anxious pair. "Are we off?"

"Let's go," Carla unlocked her car and opened the driver's door.

"Hang on a minute," Peter turned to Ken. "I thought you were meant to be bringing me a bag?"

"Oh, yes," Ken quickly retrieved a bag from his car. "Sorry, I almost forgot."

"Pop it in the boot, Ken." Carla unlocked and opened the boot. "Here."

Ken looked in the boot and then back up at Carla with a mixture of bemusement and confusion.

"Ah," Carla had forgotten about her secret stash.

"What's up," Peter ambled over to the boot, curious about its contents. "Well, it's very nice of you, Carla, to get me a 'so you're off to rehab' gift but, umm, I'm not sure they'll let me in with this lot."

"Oh, shut up, will you." Carla couldn't help but smile at Peter as she began to take the bags of booze out of the boot. "I put these in here so you couldn't get at them in the house."

"You think of everything, don't you?"

Carla smiled at Peter; he smiled back at her. Ken felt suddenly uncomfortable, a third wheel, and couldn't help but wonder what kind of understanding existed between his son and the woman Ken still considered to be the love of Peter's life.

"You know me, Peter, the control freak."

"Well, that's no bad thing sometimes, is it?"

* * *

"He'll be okay," Ken comforted Carla as they walked away from Peter's temporary home. The rehab facility was a converted mansion situated in its own extensive grounds about a half hour drive from Carla's cottage. "He's safe now."

"Yeah, I know, I just…" Carla couldn't help but let a tear escape and trickle down her cheek. "I dunno, I'm being silly, ignore me."

"I know, Carla," Ken turned to face her as they reached the car. "I know you still care about him. It's natural to worry."

Carla couldn't help but wonder what Ken would say if he knew just how much she cared, how much she worried. But she couldn't say anything; how could she? Until she knew how Peter felt, she had no right to say anything, to lay claim to a care that didn't belong to an ex-wife, a right that she'd thrown away years ago, a right that she was terrified of never owning again.

She turned to look back at the imposing structure and scanned the windows, wondering which one was his, which view would he be looking out on each day. Whether he'd be thinking about her at all. She doubted it; he'd be thinking about Susie; and about Toyah. Perhaps he'd learn to forgive, to forget the past and go on with his life, the life he'd planned with her.

With a sigh, Carla slid into the driver's seat of her car and switched on the ignition.

Peter watched from his window as Carla's car sped away down the long winding driveway and beyond, unseen by him, onto the main road and homeward bound.

Two weeks, he kept telling himself. Two weeks until he'd be allowed to have visitors; two weeks until he would see Carla again. A sudden fear gripped his heart. What if she never came to visit him? What if, now that her duty was done, she'd washed her hands of him. Two weeks suddenly felt like two years, a lifetime even, of wondering and hoping and praying that Carla would come back to him.


	8. Chapter 8: Fish fingers

**Chapter 8: Fish fingers**

Carla silently cursed the tractor that was blocking the road, meandering along the narrow winding lanes of the Devon countryside at a frustratingly slow pace, with no hope of her overtaking safely.

She was going to be late. Even without the damn tractor, Carla would have been late. Not that being late was unusual for Carla, but she'd wanted to make an extra effort today, to make a good impression. She placated herself with the knowledge that they knew what she was like; they would expect her to be late.

Even so, that didn't stop her from taking her frustrations out on the tractor driver as the vehicle's ancient suspension bounced the man up and down in his seat in a steady rhythm.

_Beep! Beep!_

* * *

Carla sped into the parking lot and swung her steering wheel violently at the last moment, stopping her car at an awkward angle that spanned two spaces. She didn't care. Jumping out of the car, she hurried to the station platform where the train was standing idle; they were already there, waiting for her.

"I'm so sorry," Carla apologised breathlessly. "I got stuck behind the slowest tractor in history."

"Not to worry," Ken reassured her. "We've only been here a couple of minutes."

"Thanks," Carla breathed a sigh of relief. "Did you have a good trip? Oh –" Ken took Carla by surprise, leaning forward to kiss her, first on one cheek and then the other.

"Fine thanks, Carla."

"Hey, Si," Carla turned to her other visitor. "How are you?"

"K." Simon answered with as much sullen teenage angst as he could muster.

Carla glanced, eyebrow raised, at Ken who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Carla understood; she would tackle Ken about Simon later when they were alone.

* * *

"He's still very upset with his dad," Ken explained to Carla. She had reserved them the best table in the restaurant; the one that afforded the most stunning views over the harbour below and the sea beyond. "He hasn't forgiven him for this latest relapse, especially since he'd been sober for such a long time. It was a real effort to get him down here, I still don't know if he's going to come to the clinic tomorrow."

"But Peter will be devastated if Si doesn't come."

"I know, but… I don't think we should pressure him to go," Ken counselled wisely.

"No, I see that," Carla agreed with her former father-in-law. "I'm just worried that, if Si's a no-show, it could really set Peter's progress back."

"I know– oh, hold up, he's coming back."

Carla looked across the restaurant to see Simon making his way back to the table.

"Well, Simon," Ken addressed his grandson. "This menu looks delicious, don't you think?"

Simon picked up the twelve-course menu and studied it with furrowed brow.

Glass noodle, cucumber, coriander and peanut salad;  
Stir-fried green beans, tamari, sesame oil, flaked almonds;  
Fermented chilli-roasted cauliflower;  
Fragrant coconut curry broth, crispy fried tofu, shiitake mushrooms, seared baby bok choy;  
Flame-grilled rendang prawns, betel leaf, shredded kohlrabi;  
Spicy peanut-crusted spatchcock, braised spring onions, sambal manis;  
BBQ'd tamarind sea bass, pickled cucumber ribbons, roti bread (served on the Terrace);  
Caramel pork belly, black vinegar, herb salad;  
Fish sauce marinated beef fillet, radish and nashi pear salad;  
Sticky rice ice cream, textures of mango;  
Steamed ginger pudding, cardamom cream;  
Vietnamese coffee truffles, smoked whisky cocktail.

"I don't really know what half of these things are?" Simon admitted, looking curiously across at Carla.

"It's just Brendan – he's my head chef – it's just him trying to be fancy." Carla attempted to play down the semantics of the menu. "You always liked it when we got Thai takeaway, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's pretty much the same."

"I doubt that very much," Ken hastened to disagree, his eyes like saucers as he perused the menu. "It doesn't, umm, there's no prices on here."

"It's a fixed menu, so a fixed price as well," Carla explained. "We operate a prepayment system so we don't need to include the price on the menu."

"Yes, but…" Ken was slightly embarrassed to be pressing the issue. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," Carla was adamant. "This is my treat."

"But, Carla –"

"No arguments."

"Thank you," Ken happily backed down with a sigh of relief; he could only imagine how high the prices were at a restaurant like this. "That's very generous of you."

* * *

"Do you want some toast, Si?" Carla was up uncharacteristically early the next morning; she had already drunken one cup of coffee before Ken had risen, and had downed the second before Simon made an appearance.

"Yes, please."

"You can help yourself to some juice. Glasses are in the cupboard there." Carla nodded to one of the overhead cabinets while she dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

"Where's granddad?" Simon wondered as he fixed himself some juice and sat down at the kitchen island.

"He's gone for a walk."

"Oh, okay."

"What do you want on your toast, Si? Peanut butter, jam, Nutella –"

"Nutella!" Simon's choice was a no-brainer for him.

Carla placed a jar of Nutella on the counter in front of Simon and returned to her station by the toaster."

"Carla?" Simon was hesitant, unsure of himself.

"Yeah?" Carla turned around to face Simon, leaning back against the edge of the counter. "What is it?"

"Umm… What was he like? Dad, I mean. When he came down here that night."

"He was upset. Very upset." Carla looked at Simon keenly, wondering how much he knew. "Do you, umm, do you know what happened, you know, with…?"

"Toyah?" Simon laughed, a cold, contemptuous laugh. "Yeah, I know what happened with that bitch."

"Simon!" Carla was shocked. "Do not use that kind of language in my house!"

"Sorry," Simon lapsed into a sullen silence.

"I do understand how you feel. What she did… it was unforgivable."

"It was her fault dad started drinking again!"

"No, Si. It was his choice to react in that way."

"You're blaming him!?" Simon glared at Carla.

"I'm not! Really, I'm not. I just… Yeah, he wouldn't have started drinking if it wasn't for what Toyah did, but… it was still his choice. And you know what, he regretted that choice. Straight away. He knew he'd messed up and he wanted to fix things."

Simon's toast popped up from the toaster; Carla put the hot slices onto a plate and placed it on the counter in front of Simon.

"Ta."

"Are you nervous about seeing him?"

Simon nodded.

"He wants to get better, Si. For you. He wants you to be proud of him again."

Simon looked up at Carla sadly. He'd been here so many times before; his dad in rehab, promising things would be different in the future. He wanted to believe it, wanted to give his dad yet another chance. But he didn't know how many times he could keep forgiving, keep pretending that things were going to be okay when his dad lived his life one disaster, one upset away from falling off the wagon and drinking himself to death.

* * *

Peter walked out of the meeting room at the end of his group session, his head full of what he'd said, what he'd heard, the resolutions he'd made. He walked down the hall and through the main lobby, blind to the people around him; the other patients, the staff, the visitors.

The visitors.

It took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. At first Peter saw one person and one person only: Simon. His son. And Simon saw him.

Peter watched as Simon rose tentatively to his feet. The sight of the lad standing nervously, hesitant about approaching his own father, scared even, almost broke his heart. It was his fault, his behaviour that had put his son in this distressing situation, that had caused him to be so fearful of someone who should have protected him.

Peter smiled across the lobby at Simon hopefully, but all Simon could do was stare back at him blankly. And then Peter saw someone else; someone standing close by his son, nudging him, encouraging him, pushing him gently towards Peter.

Carla.

Peter's gaze flickered across to Carla; she flashed him the briefest smile of reassurance, before leaning towards Simon and whispering something in his ear. Peter didn't know what she said to him, but it had the desired effect; Simon took a few tentative steps towards him. That was all Peter needed; he rushed forward and swept Simon into his arms, holding him close.

"Oh, Si. Son. I'm so happy to see you."

Peter pulled back and looked at Simon, anxious to know how he'd been coping, how he felt about him being back in rehab.

"Are you alright? Did you just arrive?"

"Me and granddad came down yesterday."

Peter looked up and saw his dad for the first time; he smiled at Ken and nodded his thanks, before turning back to his son, his priority.

"Yesterday?"

"We stayed at Carla's last night."

"Oh… that's, umm, nice."

"We went to the restaurant for dinner."

"How was that?"

"Seriously yummy!"

"That's good, Si. That's really good." Peter said, going through the motions of politeness, working himself up to say what he needed to say. "Si…" Peter reached out and stroked Simon's cheek gently. "I'm sorry. Okay? For everything. I know I've said it so many times before you probably don't believe me, but… It's going to be different from now on. I'll prove it to you. I promise."

Simon didn't know whether or not to believe his dad; like Peter had said, he'd heard it all before, time and time again. Simon didn't know if things would change, if his dad would keep his promise, but he did believe that, in this moment, his dad meant what he said, that he was sincere in his declarations, that he wanted to stay sober.

That was enough for Simon; it had to be.

* * *

Ken watched on in satisfaction as Peter and Simon talked, at one moment joking around and the next talking seriously about Peter's progress, his regrets for his past actions and hopes for a better future. After the first joyous meeting in the lobby, they had moved into one of the clinic's lounge areas, the three generations of Barlow men, and Carla, who seemed happy to sit in silence, a mere witness to this family reunion.

But even Ken wasn't so blind that he couldn't see the furtive glances that Peter kept shooting at Carla and the very self-conscious manner in which Carla dropped her gaze, almost in embarrassment.

"Simon," Ken reluctantly interrupted the father and son reunion. "Did you want to come and help me get some drinks?"

"Umm…?" Simon said hesitantly. "But…"

"Go on, Si." Peter encouraged his son before turning to his dad. "There's a kitchen through there."

With a knowing smile at the pair that remained seated, Ken led Simon in the direction Peter was pointing; Carla and Peter were finally alone.

"Your dad's not exactly subtle, is he?"

"No," Peter smirked. "I'm glad he did it though, I wanted to talk to you alone."

"Sounds ominous."

"Not at all," Peter reassured her. "It's just, in here… I dunno, you gain a little perspective on… things. You and me, Carla, it's all got a little too complicated. You know, with what happened after Aidan's funeral, and then you didn't wanna know me…"

"Do you blame me?"

"No. The opposite in fact. I behaved badly, there's no doubt about that."

"I'm glad you can see that now."

"I do," Peter said sincerely. "Which is why I don't understand why you went out of your way to help me."

"What?"

"You know, you told me you never wanted to see me again, then you drive for hours in the middle of the night to pick me up."

"What? You really thought I would've ignored you, left you to, I dunno, die of exposure in that gazebo? Choke on your own vomit?"

"No, that's not what I'm trying to say. And you know I'm grateful to you, but… I'm a mess, Carla. I'm a complete and utter mess. And I need to focus on my recovery."

"I understand that. What did I do to make you think I'd ever try to stand in the way of you getting better?"

"It's not you –"

Carla burst into laughter. "Are you seriously about to say 'It's not you, it's me'?"

"But it's true. I'm constantly second-guessing what's going on inside your head. It's exhausting. And it's not helping me, you know, in my recovery."

"Hold on a minute! You're saying I'm the one that's hurting you?"

"I'm not saying you're doing it intentionally. But, umm…"

"Well…? What exactly are you trying to tell me?"

"That I need to focus on my recovery."

"Without me?"

"No. Without any complications."

"Complications…?"

"I'm hanging on by my fingernails, Carla. I can't…"

"What?"

"I can't risk it going wrong again. Because I couldn't cope with that."

"Because you and me… It always goes wrong, doesn't it?"

"Carla…"

"Don't worry, Peter, I've got the message loud and clear."

"I still want us to be friends."

Carla sighed.

"Always."

Carla didn't know what else she could say; she couldn't kick off, get upset, declare that it was over once and for all, that they'd never be friends. No, she valued his recovery just as much as he seemed to. And he wasn't wrong; no matter how much desire there was, for each other or to make it work, it never did, they never quite seemed to have all the pieces of the puzzle fit together at the same time. Maybe Peter was right; maybe it was time for them to give it up for good.

* * *

"Are you glad you came, Simon?" Ken turned around in his seat to look at Simon in the rear passenger seat while Carla drove them back to her cottage.

"Yeah, I am. I just wish…"

"What?"

"I wish I could see him again. I don't like leaving him on his own."

"He's in the care of professionals, Simon. You needn't worry."

"I know, but…"

"You could always stay a little longer," Carla suggested tentatively.

"You mean, stay with you?"

"Yeah, why not? It's school holidays, isn't it?" Carla glanced across at Ken. "If it's going to help Peter's recovery…? A couple of days and then I'll put him on a train. Or I'll drive him back if you'd rather."

"I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"You're not," Carla reassured Ken before peering at Simon in the rear vision mirror. "How about it, Si? Do you think you can put up with me for a few more days?"

"Can I, granddad? Please?"

"It's fine by me –"

"Yes!" Simon beamed in delight.

"Only if your mum says it's okay. I'll call her when we get back to Carla's."

"Don't worry about her, granddad. She'll be fine."

"Thank you, Carla," Ken patted Carla's arm fondly. "You've really gone above and beyond."

Carla smiled at Ken; she wanted to help, she couldn't help herself where Peter and Simon were concerned, but she couldn't help feeling apprehensive about how Peter would interpret her offer.

* * *

The wind blew off the ocean and lashed Carla's face as she hurtled along the clifftop path, her hair streaming behind her, her breath coming in great gasps. It had been a long time since she'd ridden a bicycle; years in fact. Muscles she'd forgotten existed were now screaming in a combination of pain and ecstasy.

Despite the shock her body was in thanks to the unanticipated workout, she couldn't help but thrill at the feeling of freedom the bike gave her; the wonder as she looked to her left, at the expanse of ever-changing blue, from the choppy ocean on which merchant and pleasure boats alike bobbed up and down, up and away to the blur of where sea met sky, spreading high back towards and over them, meeting the horizon again to her right where rolling green hills spread as far as the eye could see, a patchwork of ancient hedgerows enclosing the fields.

When Carla had racked her brains trying to think of activities to keep a teenage boy entertained, she couldn't help but remember Brendan's stories of the cycling adventures he and his boyfriend had on his days off from the restaurant. When she'd broached the subject over breakfast, Simon was keen, so she'd driven them into town and rented a couple of bikes for the afternoon from the tourist stand on the seafront.

"Whooooo!" Carla hadn't known such exhilaration in a long time, the pure joy of it seemed to spontaneously burst out of her.

On hearing her whoop, Simon turned around on his bike and grinned at Carla.

"Watch where you're going!" The words were whipped out of Carla's mouth by the wind almost as soon as they had passed her lips.

"Come on then, I'll race ya!" Simon shouted back at her before refocusing his attention on the path ahead and pedalling furiously.

Carla tried to pick up the pace, to make her legs spin around at a greater speed, with greater force but, with age on Simon's side and herself so out of condition, she had no chance of keeping up with him. He'd soon outstripped her by many lengths, becoming an ever-decreasing dot in the distance.

* * *

Carla let her bike roll to a stop before gingerly dismounting, stretching her stiff and aching limbs, and hobbled over to where Simon lay sprawled on the grass, having arrived at the lookout some minutes before her.

But the stunning views of the Devon landscape were far from Carla's mind; she collapsed to the ground next to Simon and flung herself back in exhaustion, gazing up at the clear blue sky and breathing in deeply the air that was tinged with the ever-present tang of salt spray from the ocean below.

"Get us my bag, will ya, Si?"

Simon obediently retrieved Carla's bag that had been strapped to the rear rack of her bike.

"Okay, let's see what we've got here." Carla sat up and began to rummage through the bag for the snacks Brendan had packed for them. She pulled out a flask and two enamel mugs and passed them to Simon. "Pour us a drink."

While Simon poured them each a mug of ice cold squash, Carla took out a tupperware container and peeked inside.

"Thank you!" Carla gratefully accepted the squash from Simon and downed it in a series of thirsty gulps. "Oh god, I needed that. Here you go."

Simon took from Carla the small bun she held out to him.

"What is it?"

"These are amazing! They're Dutch currant buns, with…" Carla opened her bun hopefully. "…yes! Spread nice and thick with butter."

Carla let out a little moan of pleasure as she bit into her currant bun; Simon followed Carla's lead and took a bite of his.

"They're good!" Simon agreed with Carla's assessment.

"Aren't they just."

"Did Brendan make these?"

"Uh huh, sure did."

"Must be great, you know, to have a chef cook for you."

"Only reason I bought a restaurant. So I'd never have to cook again!"

"I'm not surprised, you were always useless at it!"

"Oi! Cheeky!"

Simon laughed and concentrated on demolishing two of the currant buns. It wasn't until he began munching on his third that he spoke again.

"Can I ask you a question, Carla?"

"Shoot."

"Do you miss Weatherfield?"

Carla stared out to sea, wondering how to answer Simon's question.

"Honestly? I don't know. I guess I miss some of the people, but… a lot of stuff happened to me there. A lot of bad stuff. A lot of stuff I just want to forget. So… no, I don't really miss it."

"You mean, like what happened to Aidan?"

Carla turned to look at Simon sadly.

"Yeah… like Aidan."

Silence hung over the pair for what seemed like the longest minute before Simon dared speak again.

"I didn't see you when you came back for Aidan's funeral, but… I wanted to say how sorry I was. You know, about what happened to him."

Carla reached out and briefly gripped Simon's arm, tears springing into her eyes as they always did when anyone spoke about her brother.

"Thanks, Si."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I shouldn't have said anything."

"What? No!"

"I've upset you!"

"You haven't, Si. Honestly, you haven't. The thing is, when something like this happens, the way it happened… People, they don't know what to say. So they say nothing. And then we don't talk about him, ever. But I want to talk about him. Even if it makes me sad. Just because he died… the way he died, doesn't mean his life wasn't worth something, wasn't worth remembering. I'm glad you said something, Si. Thank you."

"Do you know… why?"

"No. Not knowing… that's just something we're gonna have to learn to live with."

"Are you angry at him?"

Carla took a while to answer; it had been a question she had mulled over many times. She wasn't sure if she had come up with a satisfactory answer; not yet.

"I just keep reminding myself that he was ill. That seems to help. Now, are you ready for the ride back to town?"

"You reckon you can beat me this time?"

"I hope you didn't fill up too much on those buns."

"Why?"

"Cause you are gonna eat my dust!"

* * *

"I still find it hard to imagine you living here!" Simon swept his arm out over their vista, the sea to one side, the quaint fishing village on the other, as he and Carla wandered along the seafront after dropping off the rental bikes.

"Hmm…? Why's that?"

"I dunno, you never seemed like the quiet countryside kinda person."

"What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Umm…" Simon laughed self-consciously. "I don't wanna put my foot in it or nothin'."

"I won't hold it against you, Si. Promise. Cross my heart."

"Well, I always thought you were a bit, umm… posh… like you wouldn't wanna get your clothes dirty, or your shoes, especially your shoes. That you had to be near the shops and bars and boutiques." Simon shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno."

"Sounds pretty superficial to me."

"Oh, no! I didn't mean it in a bad way."

"Relax, Si, I know what you meant. And maybe I was like that once, but… I guess people change. Priorities change. And there's always online shopping."

"I've never spent much time by the sea. But, being here, it kinda makes me understand why dad joined the navy."

"The call of the sea…" Carla mused as she gazed out to the distant horizon.

"Maybe after what's happened, dad might move back to Portsmouth."

"Would you want to go with him?"

"Yeah," Simon nodded. "I think I would."

* * *

"You're back!" Brendan called out from his station at the sauce stovetop as Carla and Simon wandered into the restaurant kitchen. "How was it?"

"It was great!" Simon enthused, turning to Carla. "Wasn't it?"

"Those cliffs are a lot kinder to younger legs is all I'll say. But, yeah, we had a great time."

"What are you up to now?"

"Well, I was boasting to Si here how great it was to have my very own personal chef."

"Oh, were you now?"

"I didn't believe her, you see," Simon interjected.

"So I thought we'd come in and you could prove Si wrong…"

"What?" Brendan feigned indignation. "You want me, a professional chef on track to earn his first Michelin star by the end of the year, to cook you two reprobates some dinner?"

"Yes, please." Carla giggled.

"Yeah, please," Simon joined in on the fun. "I might starve if you don't! She's a rubbish cook, you know."

"He's a cheeky one, isn't he?" Brendan sputtered as he roared with laughter. "I do know that, actually. Which is why, I am happy to tell you, I have cooked you both some dinner. Now, Si, the important question is, do you like fish fingers?"

Simon looked at Carla; she looked back at him, a grin on her face, an eyebrow raised.

"I love fish fingers."


	9. Ch 9: Friends, lovers & fishing boats

**Chapter 9: Friends, lovers and fishing boats**

"You're late!" Carla chastised Bella as her restaurant's head waitress rushed breathlessly through the kitchen and to the chef's table in the little alcove.

"Sorry, sorry, the kids stayed with their grandparents last night so I went out for a few drinks after work. One thing led to another and… You get the picture." Bella absently planted a kiss on Carla's cheek. "Shove up, will you." Bella stared down at a fellow waiter who had, up to that moment, been talking to Carla, until they shuffled down a seat. "So…" Bella looked enquiringly at Carla as she plopped down into the recently vacated seat. "How's things? How's Peter?"

"I do have a life outside of Peter, you know!" Carla protested against Bella's assumption.

"Yeah, right," Bella scoffed. "It's working then, it is? You and him _trying_ to be 'just friends'?"

"It's working… fine." Carla faltered, lowering her gaze in the face of Bella's inquisitorial stare. "On the surface, everything is fine."

"And underneath?"

"I don't know," Carla sighed. "I don't know if it's just me reading too much into everything, if it's all in my head and he's perfectly happy with how things are now. I just don't know."

"But you're not happy? You want more?"

Carla sat in thoughtful silence for a moment under Bella's watchful gaze. She wondered how she could answer Bella's question truthfully; she wasn't sure herself what the truth was anymore.

"No." Carla didn't know if what she was saying was the truth, but it was the best she could do for now. "Peter's right. We're a disaster when we're together. We're best off as friends."

Bella glanced up from the table and peered into the busy restaurant kitchen where Peter was standing next to Brendan at the stovetop.

"What's Peter up to in the kitchen?"

"Who knows with those two," Carla rolled her eyes.

Bella merely raised an eyebrow.

"Peter and Brendan," Carla explained. "They're having a bit of a bromance."

"Are you jealous?" Bella couldn't help but tease Carla.

"Oh, come off it!"

"You and Peter, you've been living together for… What? A month now?"

"Twenty-four days," Carla corrected Bella without hesitation. "And we're not living together. I'm putting up a friend – in my spare room I might add – while he sorts himself out after a stint in rehab."

"Giving him a home… Giving him a job in your restaurant…"

"To keep him busy," Carla clarified. "Distracted. That's all."

"So, it's just a happy coincidence that you get to spend _all_ of your time with him."

"As a friend."

"Above and beyond if you ask me… for a friend."

"You know what," Carla had had enough. "I'm done with this conversation. Peter is a friend. Nothing more. Now, if you don't want to believe me, that's on you. But can you please stop bugging me about it."

"Fine." Bella humoured Carla, only for a moment. "One last thing."

"Give me strength!" Carla cried in exasperation.

"You're just friends, right?"

"For the final time… Yes!"

"So, it wouldn't bother you if he started dating someone else?"

Bella watched her friend intently; Carla couldn't quite hide the dread from showing on her face at Bella's hypothetical suggestion. Indeed, she felt the horror at the thought of Peter romantically involved with anyone else settle in the pit of her stomach, tormenting her.

"Not at all," Carla lied.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Brendan announced to the table as he approached his colleagues from the kitchen. "As a special treat for this week's staff brunch, I've let our resident pot washer here loose in my kitchen."

"Under our head chef's expert tutelage, of course," Peter interjected, as he carried a large cast iron pot to the table and set it down. "I give you…" Peter lifted the lid off the pot with a dramatic flourish "…twice-cooked beef short ribs with prik nahm pla."

"And this –" Brendan told the crew as he set down a bowl of the Thai dipping sauce. "Is the prik nahm pla."

"Well, dig in guys."

After presenting his food to the table, Peter naturally gravitated to where Carla was seated, eager for her assessment of his abilities.

"So that's why you disappeared from the cottage at an ungodly hour this morning?" Carla determined. "You thinking of a career change?"

"No, just having a bit of fun and…"

"What?"

"Well, you never know when I'm gonna need to cook someone a romantic meal."

"Romantic?"

"I meant a special meal."

"Right." Carla's brow furrowed, confused by the cheeky grin that Peter was trying his best to suppress.

"Can I get you some?" Peter asked, enjoying Carla's confusion. "Before this bunch scoff the lot?"

"Thanks," Carla nodded, impatient to taste Peter's culinary creation, the aromas of which had wafted down to her, making her salivate in anticipation.

Carla smiled as she watched Peter carefully select the perfect rib for her to taste, plating it meticulously with a sprig of coriander and some finely sliced red chilli on top, along with a small bowl of the prik nahm pla on the side. He looked like he belonged here; in her restaurant, in her life. She pushed from her mind the inconvenient truth that this set-up, both here at work and at home, was temporary. That, as soon as Peter felt strong enough to face his real life again, he would be gone. Gone from her home, gone from her work, gone from her life.

* * *

"How about it Carla?" Brendan strode over to his boss, the kitchen clean-down now complete.

"How about what?" Carla looked up from her laptop where she had been checking the restaurant accounts.

"I was just saying to Peter how about we all go for a bike ride this afternoon. You two and me and Thomas."

"Oh… I, umm… No, sorry, I'm meeting my builder about the renovations."

"On a Sunday?" Peter queried in disbelief as he joined the pair. "Blow him off, it's Sunday for god's sake."

Carla looked up at Peter and, for a moment, thought she would do it; cancel the meeting to spend the afternoon with Peter. And Brendan and Thomas of course.

"I'll go if Carla's busy," Bella offered.

"Yeah, okay," Brendan agreed without hesitation. "We're leaving now though."

"I'm ready."

"Have fun." Carla spoke softly so that only Peter could hear.

"Thanks," Peter replied with a lingering smile.

"Peter!" Brendan called out from the kitchen doorway; they were ready to go.

"I'll seeya later."

"Bye."

* * *

"Is Carla in?"

Peter looked up at the tall, handsome stranger striding towards the restaurant entry from a shiny black Range Rover.

"Who are you?" Peter demanded.

"Harry," Harry responded politely, holding his hand out to Peter, who shook it briefly, still suspicious. "The builder? I'm meeting Carla in… five minutes."

"Right, you better come in then."

* * *

"Carla," Peter called out as he re-entered the kitchen.

"That was a quick ride," Carla joked.

"Visitor for you."

"Harry!" Carla smiled as she stood to receive him. "Thanks for coming in on a Sunday."

"Anything for my favourite restauranteur."

"Flatterer."

"I'll, umm… I'll get going then." Peter stood awkwardly as he watched, disconcerted, as this very attractive and very age-appropriate man launched a charm offensive on his Carla.

"Thanks, Peter." Carla glanced up ever so briefly at Peter before turning her full attention back to Harry, silently but effectively dismissing Peter from her presence.

* * *

"And you can guarantee the place will be spotlessly clean and your workers gone each day before the restaurant opens?" Carla grilled Harry as they surveyed the old storage room. "I can't have any disruption to the business."

"Your diners won't even know we're here," Harry assured her.

"Well, then. I think we've got a deal. When can you start?"

"Two weeks Monday."

"Great."

Carla held out her hand to Harry, an invitation to shake on the deal. Harry took the deal, gripping Carla's hand firmly in his, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

"How about we celebrate?" Harry suggested. "A drink or maybe a meal?"

Carla looked at Harry, uncertain of how to answer; the truth was, she wasn't quite sure of the question.

"I don't want to be presumptuous or anything, but…" Carla smiled at him tentatively. "Are you asking me out on a date?" Carla took one look at Harry's face and wished the earth would swallow her up. "Oh my god… It's just a business thing, isn't it? I'm so embarrassed."

"Don't be embarrassed," Harry laughed, reaching out to give Carla's shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Truth be told, I was actually hoping it would be a date."

"Oh… Umm…" Carla blushed, silently chastising herself for putting them both in such a difficult situation. "The thing is… I think it'd be better if we kept things professional. I've had my fingers burnt in the past, you know, mixing business with pleasure. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. I understand."

* * *

Carla wandered from the restaurant down towards the beach after the meeting with Harry had ended. She wondered, briefly, if she had made the right decision turning down his offer of a date. She didn't have to wonder for long, she knew she'd done the right thing; she wasn't interested in Harry.

She smiled to herself as she basked in the afternoon sunshine that was gently warming her skin, that was making the blue of the sea in the distance even more vibrant, that was making the smiles on the faces of the beachgoers even broader.

Her gaze gradually focused on one group of beachgoers in particular; a happy foursome, enjoying each other's company while they scoffed ice creams. Her approach towards this group soon faltered, however, when she saw something disturbing. Surely not? Carla couldn't believe what she was seeing. Bella, her best friend, her treasured employee, was flirting with her ex-husband, her current… she didn't know what Peter was to her right now. All she knew was that Bella was laughing at something Peter had just said, smiling at him, raising her hand and patting him affectionately on his chest, standing close to him, too close. Most of all, she knew she didn't like what she was seeing, she didn't like it at all.

Carla was on the verge of turning back and walking away when Peter called out to her.

"Carla!" He waved to her with sincere enthusiasm. "Come here!"

Carla couldn't help but smile at him, quickening her step as she hurried to join him.

"How was the ride?" Carla asked the group in general, all the while subtly directing the question at Peter.

"It was fantastic!" Bella jumped in before anyone else could answer. "Wasn't it, Peter?" Bella gave Peter a friendly nudge with her elbow and flashed him a big smile before turning and grinning at Carla.

"Yeah," Peter agreed enthusiastically. "It was the perfect weather for it."

"We're gonna have a quick drink at the Beach Shack before heading back for dinner prep," Brendan explained to Carla. "Do you wanna join us?"

"Umm…" Carla glared at Bella. "No. I've got things to do. Don't be late back."

* * *

Carla marched with as much composure and dignity as she could muster over the shifting sands of the beach, eager to get away from the sight of Bella pawing over Peter like a nymphomaniac.

"Carla!"

Bella stumbled over the soft sand as she hurried to catch up with Carla.

"Carla! Wait up!"

Carla kept up her march without a backwards glance. But Bella, determined to speak to her, to explain, broke into an ungainly run.

"Hey!" Breathless, Bella fell into step beside Carla. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing." Carla stared straight ahead, refusing to even look at Bella.

"Come off it, Carla. I almost got frostbite back there, the death stare you were giving me."

Finally, Carla stopped and turned to face Bella, her demeanour downright glacial.

"Didn't take you long to swoop," Carla coldly accused her friend.

"What?"

"You and Peter. I saw you, all over him like a… nasty rash!"

"Me and Peter?!" Bella laughed, incredulous. "I'm not interested in Peter!"

"That's not what it looked like to me."

"I knew you were watching us, you daft cow." Bella explained with exasperation. "I wanted to make you jealous. And it looked like my plan worked!"

"But… Why?"

"Are you being deliberately thick?" Bella stared at her in bewilderment. "I did it so you would finally admit what is plain as the nose on my face. That you're still in love with Peter!"

"You are so far out of line," Carla warned, her voice low and dangerous.

"Then stop denying that you want him."

"Hey, it's not me you should be having a go at. He's the one that put a stop to things, Bella, not me."

"Only because you were messing with his head."

"I wasn't. I was confused, I was… Oh my god," Carla gasped as the truth dawned on her. "I was messing with his head, wasn't I?"

Bella rolled her eyes at Carla and shrugged.

"Look," Bella said gently. "He obviously still has feelings for you. Despite what he says."

"What am I meant to do, Bella? Call him out as a liar?"

"Talk to him," Bella advised. "Be straight with him. Tell him how you feel, what you want."

"And what if that scares him off and he leaves? Then I've lost his friendship as well!"

"Do you really want a friendship that makes you so unhappy?"

* * *

A creature of habit, Carla sat at her favourite table next to the railings on her restaurant's cliff-terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, thoughts of Peter on her mind. He was up there right now, in her restaurant, helping to prepare for Sunday night dinner service. All she would have to do was make a phone call, ask him to come down and meet her here.

Just one phone call.

She picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts; pausing, fearful of making the wrong decision.

She placed the call.

"Hi," Carla spoke with forced cheerfulness into the phone. "It's Carla … Yeah, I know … Well, the thing is… the restaurant's closed tomorrow, so… I was thinking maybe you and me could go out somewhere? … Yeah, like a date … You would? … That's great! … About six? … I'm looking forward to it."

Carla hung up the phone; a shiver ran down her spine as she thought about the possible consequences of the phone call she had just made, a phone call made on impulse, spur of the moment, a phone call that could very well determine her future.

* * *

Peter lounged on the armchair in the cottage living room, his right leg draped over the one arm, his head resting against the headrest opposite, flicking lazily through the television channels. But nothing was capturing his attention; he switched the television off with a sigh.

"What do ya think?"

Peter looked up at Carla; a sharp intake of breath. "Wow," Peter whispered, almost imperceptibly as he stared at her, taking in every inch of her body, from the impossibly high-heeled designer shoes that Carla hadn't quite given up despite moving to the countryside, up her legs to the figure-hugging red dress that started just above her knees and followed the curves of her body, the plunging v-neck that showed off just enough cleavage to tantalise but not too much to scandalise, and the fitted sleeves that finished just above her elbows. She'd styled her hair in soft waves that fell effortlessly over her shoulders, with little tendrils tumbling forward and resting on her cleavage. Her smoky blue-green eyes stood out with a brilliant contrast against her smoky black eye makeup; her lips glistened with a nude-coloured gloss. Peter couldn't help but stare at her lips; he stared for so long that Carla dropped her head in embarrassment.

Peter rose to his feet as if pulled by a magical force and strode over to where Carla was standing, just inside the living room door. She looked up at him, questioningly.

"You're perfect."

Carla smiled self-consciously, biting her lower lip and once again dropping her gaze. Peter studied her eyelashes and the bewitching shadows they were creating on Carla's cheeks. With an extraordinary show of self-control, he resisted the urge to reach out and caress her cheek.

Carla looked back up at him, seeking out his gaze; unconsciously, they both took a step forward, their bodies were mere inches apart, their faces, their lips. Carla parted her lips; Peter caught a glimpse of her tongue inside her mouth. Then she licked her lips; Peter felt all his self-control begin to slip away, his heart began to beat faster, pounding against his chest, his cock twitched into life, pressing against its denim prison.

_Bzzzz_

The doorbell.

Peter silently cursed their timing; if only they'd arrived a minute later.

As if the doorbell had never rung, Carla and Peter stood, rooted to the spot, staring into each other's eyes. Why didn't she move? Peter wondered what was stopping her.

_Bzzzz_

"I better…" Carla finally broke her silence, breaking with it the spell that had momentarily descended over them.

"Yeah."

Reluctantly, Carla turned and walked slowly towards the door.

"Carla."

"Yes?" Carla turned back; hopefully, expectantly.

"Have a good time."

* * *

She stood at her front door, still firmly shut, and took a deep breath, composing herself, steadying her heart.

"Hi Harry," Carla smiled as she opened the door, welcoming her date for the evening.

"Wow," Harry was gobsmacked. "You look… amazing."

"Thank you."

"You ready to go then?"

"Sure."

Carla walked out the door, closing it behind her, leaving Peter standing where she had left him moments earlier. The spot where they had stood, face-to-face, so close they could almost feel the other's hot breath on their skin. The spot where Peter now stood alone; Carla was gone.

* * *

Peter stood at the lounge room window, peering out onto the driveway as far as he could see; all the way to where it curved out of sight behind a high hedge and stone wall. He looked down at his watch: 8pm. She wouldn't be home for hours yet; if she came home at all. The thought of Carla staying the night at Harry's filled him with dread.

* * *

Peter stood at the open fridge door, searching for something to eat; not that he was particularly hungry, he was simply passing the time until she came home. He took a half-drunken bottle of white wine from the fridge door and held it in his hands, staring at it, lusting after it. It seemed like the bottle was talking to him, calling for him, seducing him into drinking its contents. No. He wasn't going down that path again. He put the bottle back in the fridge and instead took out a takeaway container of leftover Indian curry. He stood at the kitchen counter and ate the curry cold, straight out of the container.

* * *

Peter stood on the stone terrace, a lit cigarette in his hand, staring out over the fields and towards the sea. The sea; the acute awareness that the sea was so close to him, all around him, a part of his everyday life in this community, gave him comfort, a feeling of being at home. He wondered just how long she would continue to welcome him into her home.

* * *

Peter lounged on the sofa in the darkness; waiting. The longer he waited, the angrier he became. And then he heard it; the sound of tyres crunching against crushed limestone.

Peter sat up, alert. This was it.

The car engine was silenced, the car doors slammed, voices, two of them, a man and a woman, could be heard, faint at first, but growing louder as they leisurely approached the cottage.

* * *

"So…" Carla turned to face Harry as she reached her front door, a smile playing on her lips as she looked up at him.

"So…" He countered playfully.

"I had a really nice time tonight."

"Maybe we could do it again sometime?"

Harry's innocent question struck sudden fear into Carla's heart. What was wrong with her? She forced a smile back on her face, but the words died on her lips.

Not that Harry noticed. He moved closer towards Carla; reaching out, he rested a hand gently on her shoulder, stroking her skin softly with his thumb. Carla watched in abject horror as his face moved closer to hers, his lips closer to hers, inches away now, closer, impact imminent.

"No." Carla pulled away, her hands on his chest, pushing him, a physical barrier between their bodies. "I'm sorry, I can't."

"Oh." Harry was surprised, he had been sure she had wanted him to kiss her, that she'd given him all the signals. "I'm sorry, I, umm…"

Carla stood in silence, mortified. She _had_ given him all the signals, she _had_ wanted him to kiss her. So why hadn't she been able to go through with it?

"Please don't apologise," Carla reassured him. "Don't be sorry. It's not your fault. You're, umm… you're lovely. It's me, I…"

"You don't want a lovely bloke to kiss you?"

"Apparently not," Carla conceded. "I must be crazy, hey?"

The pair stood awkwardly on Carla's doorstep, unsure of their next move.

"I guess I'll, umm… I'll go."

"Sorry."

Carla watched Harry leave with regret. She wished she could have kissed him, had a relationship with him even; an unproblematic relationship. She silently cursed Peter, blaming him for her inability to move on with her life.

* * *

Carla closed her front door quietly and slumped back against it, reflecting on what had just happened and trying desperately to regain her composure before facing Peter.

"You could've invited him in. Pretended I wasn't here." Peter's voice, cold and bitter, came as if disembodied from the darkened living room.

Carla switched on the living room light and stared at Peter; he glared back at her, hating himself for how he was talking to her, but feeling powerless to stop.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?"

"Nothing better to do."

An awkward silence descended; Carla and Peter stared at each other, each unjustifiably angry with the other.

"I'm going to bed," Carla declared as she turned to leave.

"Good date?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Carla snapped.

"Whoa! It was just a question, no need to jump down me throat!"

"Sorry."

"Well?" Peter looked at her questioningly, not at all ready for the answer. "How was it?"

"Fine."

"He was a gentleman I take it and walked you to the door?"

"Yeah, he was."

"No goodnight kiss?"

"That's none of your business."

"Oh, I get it." Peter smirked. "That's why you're in a mood. He didn't try it on, didn't kiss you."

"That's not –"

"He wasn't interested, there's no shame in admitting it."

"Peter, stop it!" Carla warned. "Why are you being like this?"

"He's just not that into you," Peter shrugged in amusement.

"You are a complete pillock sometimes, you know that!" Carla spat at him. "If you must know, he did try to kiss me. It was me who couldn't kiss him! Not the other way round. It was me! I was the one who couldn't do it!"

Peter stared at her, mulling over her last words, wondering about their meaning.

"You _couldn't_ kiss him?"

"What?"

"You said you couldn't kiss him?" Peter analysed Carla's words. "Why? Did you forget how?"

"You've lost the plot," Carla asserted, tapping her head as reinforcement. "I'm going to bed."

"No, hold on a minute." Peter was intractable. "Why couldn't you kiss him? You obviously wanted to."

"Can you please just let it go."

"No." Peter bluntly refused. "I want to know what you meant by 'couldn't'?"

"Why do you think, Peter? Hmm?" Carla turned on him with a snarl. "Because of you!"

Peter was speechless, in shock. He simply stared at her, desperate to know what she meant by those three words.

"Are you happy now? I couldn't kiss him – an attractive, wealthy, successful, _normal_ man – because he wasn't you. It's you, Peter. It's always you. Always you messing up my life!"

Carla rushed from the room, tears smarting in her eyes. She hated that Peter still managed to get under her skin like this; hated that he wouldn't let her move on.

"Carla!" Peter called after her, following her out of the room and up the stairs. "Please, Carla, talk to me."

But Carla had retreated to her bedroom, slamming the door in Peter's face when he tried to follow her in. He tried the door handle, but Carla had locked it from the inside.

"Carla?" Peter's voice was low now; gentle, pleading. "Please, we need to talk."

But Carla refused to talk, refused to make any sign that she'd even heard him; he was met with a wall of impenetrable silence.

* * *

Carla inched open her bedroom door the next morning, uncertain of the reception that might be waiting for her. Wrapping her dressing gown snugly around her body, she padded along the upstairs landing. She was surprised to find the door to the spare bedroom – Peter's bedroom – was open; the bed was made and the room empty.

She tiptoed downstairs, expecting to find Peter nursing a coffee in the kitchen. But the kitchen, like the spare bedroom, was empty. She quickly checked the living room; empty.

"Peter?"

But the only answer Carla heard was her own voice echoing around her otherwise empty house.

"Peter!"

Carla searched the house and the gardens, but Peter was nowhere to be found.

She rushed to the kitchen bench where her phone was charging; her heart sank when she saw that Peter's phone was there as well, next to hers.

* * *

Peter stood on the jetty, watching the fishermen; some were freshly arrived from their early morning fishing trips, their boats groaning with the weight of today's catch, while others were only now preparing to go out on the water. He breathed in deeply, relishing the salty tang of the air, that familiar feeling of the brisk sea wind sweeping over the water and hitting him square in the face, almost taking his breath away.

"'Scuse me, mate."

"Oh, sorry."

Peter moved aside to allow a man carrying lobster traps to shuffle past him on the jetty.

"You headed out?" Peter struck up a conversation with the man, following him down the jetty to where a small fishing trawler was moored.

"What's it to you?"

"Nothin'," Peter admitted. "A bit jealous to be honest. I miss being out at sea."

"You a fisherman are ya?"

"Nah, I was in the navy," Peter explained. "Subs."

"What do ya do with yourself nowadays?"

Peter sighed, before reluctantly revealing the truth. "I wash dishes in my ex-wife's restaurant."

"Huh!" The fisherman grunted in solidarity. "You fancy coming out with us then?"

"What? Now?"

"Yeah, help us set some traps, pull up what's out there. I can't pay ya, but I can give you a lobster for your tea. And get you out on the water again. There's nothing like it."

"Yeah, I know." Peter nodded, memories of his life at sea flooding back to the forefront of his mind. "Looks like you got yourself a new deckhand."

* * *

Carla paced her kitchen, her mobile in her hand. She looked up at the clock; it was almost noon. Peter had been missing for… Carla didn't know for how long. For all she knew, he could have been missing since last night. He could be anywhere by now.

So she placed the call; she'd had the phone number already typed out on her keypad, ready but not willing to use it. Until now.

"Oh, hi," Carla stammered into the phone. "I, umm, I'm trying to track someone down. They've gone missing and I'm worried he might've been injured and taken to hospital. If I describe him, can you tell me if he's been admitted? … Well, he's –"

With perfect timing, Peter opened the door and sauntered into Carla's kitchen as if he had not one care in the world.

"I'm sorry, don't worry about it, he's just turned up … Yeah … You might be seeing him later once I'm through with him … Thank you, I'm so sorry."

Carla ended the call and turned to confront Peter, one of her famous death stares fixed on him.

"You right?" Peter spoke casually, trying to diffuse Carla's simmering anger.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Okay, just calm down, alright."

"Calm down? Calm! Down!? You're telling me to calm down?"

"There's nothing to get upset about."

"Nothing to– I thought you might be lying dead in a ditch or summat! I was worried sick."

"I'm sorry, I walked down to the harbour."

"The harbour? But… that would've taken you hours!"

"I couldn't sleep."

"Right."

"I got talking to some fishermen and they took me out on their boat."

"Well, I'm so pleased you got to go on a jolly," Carla couldn't help but lace her words with sarcasm.

"Carla, it was just what I needed." Peter spoke as a man who had just undergone a Damascus conversion. "It made me realise that I needed to take responsibility for my life, to make some decisions about the future. What I want my future to look like."

"And?" Carla was dubious. "Did you?"

"Yeah, I did. And now… _Now_ I need to go and do something about it. Make that future happen for me."

"That's, umm… that's good?"

"Which is why I need to go back to Weatherfield."

"You're leaving?" Carla was horrified at the thought. "When?"

"Today! Right now! What's there to wait for? I've got my whole life to plan!"

* * *

Carla watched Peter's car disappear around the curve in her driveway; she was still in shock at his sudden departure. Within half an hour of him returning home he had gone. Home; she laughed at the word. It wasn't his home anymore, it never had been, not really. And now it never would be.

She turned and walked back inside her home; alone. Suddenly she felt tired. Tired and lonely.

* * *

Peter couldn't keep the smile off his face as he sped north towards Weatherfield; towards home.

He had felt cast adrift for so long; even before he had found out the truth about Susie, he hadn't felt in control of his life. He had gone along with the whole surrogacy plan because that was what Toyah wanted and he had wanted to make her happy.

But now he had clarity. He knew what he wanted, not what someone else wanted, what _he_ wanted. And he was determined to get it.

He finally saw his future stretching out clearly in front of him; a future with direction, a future of fulfilled dreams, of happiness.


	10. Chapter 10: The Italian job

**Chapter 10: The Italian job**

When Peter first caught sight of the sea after an absence of even one day, his heart leapt and his soul was at peace. That glimpse of the eternal blue stretching out towards the infinite horizon as he crested that final hill made everything seem right with the world again.

He felt those same things today, but there was something else; something more. Today, his eyes weren't instinctively drawn to the sea, but instead he searched the fields and the rolling hills for that first sight of the small stone cottage, with its winding crushed limestone driveway, its flagged stone terrace, its bedroom with the twin windows, its path down to the beach.

He was searching for home.

* * *

Peter opened the front door to Carla's cottage and stepped inside. Her hallway was cool and dimly lit, illuminated only by the weak sunshine that was filtering through the long narrow sidelights flanking the front door. The silence seemed to echo off the stone walls, heightening his increasing sense of foreboding.

"Carla?" Peter called out; a futile gesture, it was obvious that no one was at home.

Even so, Peter couldn't help but wander through Carla's home, through the tidy living room with her fashion magazines, normally spread out haphazardly on the coffee table, now stacked neatly, through the kitchen, where no dirty coffee mug sat in the sink, and no perishables sat fermenting in the fridge, and up into her bedroom where the bed was neatly made, and her clothes, clean and ironed, were hung in the wardrobe.

He rambled around the garden, no longer searching, just wondering. He peeked in through the garage window; her car was there, locked up safely.

But where was Carla?

* * *

"You better not be here to beg for your job back," Brendan said coldly, as he glared up at Peter from where he was gathering sorrel in the restaurant's kitchen garden.

"No, I'm, ahh, I'm looking for Carla," Peter stammered, confused by his friend's open hostility. "She wasn't at the cottage."

"She wouldn't be, would she?" Brendan was infuriatingly cryptic.

"Why? Where is she?"

Brendan rose to his feet, his basket brimming with the leafy green vegetable, it's tangy lemon flavour a perfect accompaniment to the salmon dish he was planning to serve as part of that night's menu.

"What is it that you want, Peter?"

"I told you, I want to see Carla."

"She's not here."

Brendan stalked into the kitchen with his haul of sorrel, Peter following close behind.

"Well, when will she be back?"

"I'm not sure," Brendan was evasive. "Two, maybe three weeks."

"Three weeks! What's going on?"

Brendan ignored Peter, instead unloading his sorrel into the vegetable wash sink.

"Brendan! What…?" Peter exclaimed in confusion. "Have I done something?"

Brendan flicked on the water, allowing it to flow over the sorrel, and turned to confront Peter.

"Are you joking?"

"I don't know. I don't know what's going on. I…"

"You left, remember?" Brendan rounded on Peter. "Gone. Moved on with your life without a second thought for Carla, for everything she's done for you. No consideration for how she feels and you act like you don't know what you did?!"

"That's not what happened, I swear. I explained to her that I needed to sort a few things out…"

"Yeah, sort out your future. Away from here. Away from her."

"No," Peter shook his head. "No no, that's… no! Is that what she thought?"

"What did you expect her to think?" Brendan cried in exasperation. "You come back after some kind of epiphany and then up and leave her. Just like that."

"Please tell me where she's gone. I need to explain it to her."

"She's gone away, a business trip sourcing new suppliers."

"It's a bit last-minute, isn't it? She never mentioned anything to me."

"We'd pencilled it in for a few months' time but…"

"What?"

"Well, she moved it forward after you left. Wanted to get away from things, clear her head. I don't blame her."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know, me and Carla, we've been working together fairly closely for quite a while now. And she has always been a great boss. Demanding, yes, but fair. And generous if you do right by her. But she was, I dunno, it was like she had shut down a part of herself. You could have a laugh with her, but you couldn't get any deeper. She wouldn't let anyone get close enough. And then you turned up and suddenly she became this whole other person I'd never met. She was open and, I dunno, vulnerable I guess, willing to let people in. She was happy."

"She was happy? Because of me?"

"Happy. And sad. All at the same time. But alive and feeling things again. And, yes, that was because of you."

"Please tell me where she is."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm gonna find her."

* * *

Carla wandered aimlessly along the streets of the old city, oblivious to the famous architecture, to the streets oozing with history dating back to Roman times and beyond.

She thought back to the farm tour and tasting she'd just been on, of the endless morsels of the salty, crumbly, ever so moreish Parmigiano-Reggiano she'd shovelled into her mouth. At first resolving to show more self-control in the future, fearful of rolling back to England a stone heavier than when she'd left, a natural result of the excessive amounts of deliciously decadent foods she'd been tasting, she soon realised she'd come to the wrong place. Here in Parma, in the shadow of the Apennine mountain range in northern Italy, Carla had come to a place renowned for its geographically protected foods, its cheeses and cured meats, its filled pasta dishes, and its wine.

Carla looked up at the clock tower of the Governor's Palace in the heart of Parma; it was just after 6pm. Not too early for dinner, she thought, not if she started off with a cheeky aperitivo, an Aperol spritz.

She was soon sat at a table for one on the pavement lining the cobbled street in front of a traditional Italian trattoria, the promised spritz in her hand and a platter of antipasti on the table in front of her. She picked at the tidbits laid out on the platter; those delicacies synonymous with the region, the chunks of Parmigiana-Reggiano, the wafer-thin slices of Prosciutto di Parma, the torta fritta, bite size pieces of salty wheat dough fried in oil, along with the traditional Italian staples of pickled peperoncini, olives, mozzarella pearls tossed in pesto, and grilled artichoke hearts.

She thought back over the past week or so that she'd spent touring Italy, of the food she'd eaten.

The creamy and vibrant Risotto alla Milanese, decadently rich with bone marrow and saffron, the ever-popular margherita pizza of Naples, the iconic Sicilian cannoli, lightly sweetened ricotta stuffed into tubes of crunchy fried pastry dough and topped with crushed pistachios, the spicy penne all'arrabbiata from the southern Italian region of Calabria that is famous for its chillies.

And of course there had been the drink; the chianti of Tuscany, the Amalfi Coast speciality, Limoncello, the Prosecco from the Veneto region, and the endless shots of espresso, ordered the Italian way at the bar and drunk standing up.

But through it all, the sights she'd seen, the food she'd eaten, and the wine she'd drunk, there was one thing that was missing; someone to share it with. When she first saw the ancient ruins of the Roman Forum, caught her first glimpse of the sweeping views across the Gulf of Naples from Sorrento, each time she'd tasted something new and delicious, she'd turned around to tell someone, someone special. But each time, she'd been alone, or worse, with a guide, a producer whose only goal began and ended with making a sale.

"Mi scusi."

Carla looked up from her musings to see her waiter looking down at her, the most adorable questioning look in his dreamy brown eyes. She stared at him for a moment, captivated by his chiselled features, the lock of dark hair that flopped so effortlessly cool over his forehead, his olive complexion, reminiscent of a lifetime spent under the Italian sun.

"Signora?"

Startled, Carla blushed as she regained control of her senses. What was she doing? Lusting over a cute waiter at least twenty years her junior. She chastised herself, determined not to become _that_ cliché.

"I'm sorry," she beamed at him; she couldn't help it, he was ridiculously attractive.

"Can I get you another drink?" He spoke in broken English, aware that she was not a native Italian speaker.

"Please. Can I have some Lambrusco?" Carla ordered, before adding with a cheeky grin, "A bottle."

"Of course."

"Grazie, umm…" Carla struggled to remember the basic Italian she'd picked up from an app she'd downloaded to her phone. "Come ti… chi-a-mi?"

The waiter smiled indulgently at Carla before answering her. "Mi chiamo Gabriele. E tu?"

"Mi chiamo Carla."

"Piacere di conoscerti Carla. Nice to meet you."

"Piacere di conoscerti Gabriele."

* * *

The cool sparking red Lambrusco that Gabriele brought out to Carla was perfect for the Indian summer that much of Europe was currently experiencing. She drank it with her main of Tortelli d'erbetta, a filled pasta dish that was a speciality of Parma. The silky smooth and impossibly thin pasta was stuffed with a mixture of sheep and cow's milk ricotta, Parmigiana-Reggiano and stinging nettle, and then tossed in a brown butter and sage sauce with the obligatory extra scattering of Parmigiana-Reggiano on top.

Afterwards, her tummy comfortably full and her head pleasantly buzzing from the effects of the wine, she began her short walk back to her hotel.

"Signora! Signora Carla!"

Carla turned and, squinting into the darkness, spied Gabriele, her cute waiter, hurrying to catch up with her.

"Gabriele? What's wrong?"

"Niente," Gabriele smiled at her. "Nothing."

"Then, what…?"

"I have decided to walk you home," he declared. "A casa tua."

"N–" Carla began to protest but quickly changed her mind, deciding that she would very much like this cute waiter to walk her back to her hotel. "You're very presumptuous, Gabriele."

"Presumptuous?" Gabriele queried, unfamiliar with the word, as he fell into step besides Carla.

"It means, umm…" Carla struggled to explain. "It means you're very cheeky."

"Yes," he agreed. "Sfacciato. Cheeky."

"Sfacciato?"

"Si."

"Gabriele is sfacciato."

"Si," Gabriele grinned at her; Carla couldn't help but grin back at him.

* * *

"Well, this is me." Carla turned to face Gabriele as they stopped outside her hotel.

"Buona notte, Carla." Gabriele spoke softly as he picked up her hand and kissed it gently. "Sweet dreams."

"Good night."

Carla smiled and, leaving Gabriele standing in the street, she turned to enter her hotel. But something held her back, something stopped her feet from moving. She looked back at him. Why not?

Striding back to him, she grabbed him by the hand and led him, almost dragged him in fact, to the side of the hotel. Pulling him around the corner, she reached up and, clasping her hands around his head, drew his face down to hers, and kissed him.

Pleasantly surprised by Carla's advances, Gabriele responded in kind. He shoved her gently up against the side wall of her hotel, his hands reached for her waist, pulling her hips into his. His lips mashed hungrily against hers, his tongue swept along her lips, pushing against the seam of her lips, demanding entry into her mouth.

Carla raked her fingers through Gabriele's hair as her mouth opened; his tongue darted into her mouth, exploring the cavernous depths within, playfully wrestling with her tongue, breathing deeply into her. His tongue retreated as his kisses slowed; he sucked gently on her lower lip as he moved away from her mouth and kissed instead her jawline, soft, quick kisses, all the way back to her ear and then down her neck.

His hands moved from her waist to her lower back; he pushed his hands up underneath her top, one hand moving up the smooth skin of her back. The other hand he moved down and, slipping it beneath the fabric of her skinny black jeans and her lacy thong, squeezed her arse cheek.

Carla reached for his hands and pulled them away from her body, gripping them firmly in her hands. She kissed him one final time, a deep sensuous kiss, her tongue sweeping across his lips, before gently pushing his body away from hers.

"Buona notte, Gabriele." She kissed his cheek softly. "Thank you."

Without a backwards glance, Carla walked away from Gabriele, a smile that she couldn't quite shake spread widely across her face.

Walking through the hotel lobby, she began to wonder exactly what it was that she was doing there. She'd come on this trip to escape from her problems at home, to forget what had happened with Peter. If she were honest, she didn't care about tastings or suppliers or terms of contracts. They were just an excuse to leave the responsibilities of home behind. She wanted to break free from all that, to have a break from real life.

As she walked past the hotel reception desk, her eye was caught by a rack of glossy brochures, designed to entice tourists to various attractions around the region. Carla flicked through the brochures until one in particular grabbed her attention.

"Is this…" Carla held the brochure up for the hotel receptionist to see. "Is this far away?"

"About two hours by car," the receptionist explained. "Do you have a car?"

"Yeah, I've got a rental."

"It's very beautiful."

"It is, isn't it?"

* * *

Peter's mind raced as he watched the Departures board, anxious to see which gate his flight would be departing from. All the things he wanted to say to Carla flew through his mind, but they were still a jumble of thoughts and feelings, an incoherent mess. As soon as he was safely on the plane, he would have time to gather his thoughts.

He was flying into Milan's Malpensa Airport; despite it being almost two hours' drive from his final destination of Parma, it was the quickest route he could find at such short notice. And he didn't want to waste any time; he wanted to see Carla, to reassure her, as quickly as was humanly possible.

The Departures board flashed, its display was refreshing with new information. Peter held his breath as he waited. Gate 24. Peter was off, relieved to finally be taking action, to be moving forward in his quest.

* * *

"Un caffè per favore."

Carla ordered her espresso at an ungodly hour the next morning; she wanted to be on the road early, but the six am wakeup call almost derailed her before she even started.

She gulped down the shot of coffee and ordered another before hitting the road.

The rolling green fields of the lowlands soon gave way to the foothills and eventually the peaks of the mountain ranges where the air was cool and refreshing. The further Carla drove, the greater her sense of freedom and the stripping away of the cares and responsibilities of her life back in England.

For a moment, she worried that Brendan hadn't received her email asking him to cancel all her meetings for that day, worried that she would be letting people down. But she worried only for a moment before looking out onto the tree-clad slopes that climbed high into the sky, culminating in sharp rocky crags that loomed over the length of the country from north to south through a series of mountain ranges. And then she forgot all about her meetings, she forgot about Brendan and her restaurant. Most of all, she forgot about Peter.

* * *

Peter stood in the Arrivals hall of Malpensa Airport, a sea of strangers surging around his stationary frame, as his eyes darted here and there, trying desperately to get his bearings and to make a decision.

He knew he could either take the train to Parma and rent a car from there or rent the car at the airport and drive to Parma himself. But all he could do was stand there, overwhelmed from the mad dash to the airport from Devon, the sleepless night waiting for a flight and the ever-increasing anxiety of how he would ever find Carla in this foreign country.

He wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake in flying to the other side of the continent, chasing after a woman who was apparently trying to escape from the memory of him. He imagined the look on Carla's face if he ever caught up with her; the surprise that he would be so presumptuous; the dismay that he had the nerve.

For the first time since the idea had crossed his mind as he had faced Brendan in the restaurant kitchen, his bravado failed him; a sudden desire to catch the first plane back home to Manchester threatened to overcome him.

* * *

Carla gasped in awe as she walked down from the hill and into the village.

She had decided to focus her visit on Riomaggiore, the southernmost of five villages of the Cinque Terre that were strung out along the north-western Italian coastline, perched on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Ligurian sea.

She wandered down the narrow winding streets, flanked either side by brightly painted houses, their shuttered windows bedecked with window boxes containing vibrant displays of annuals, and their iron-railed balconies cloaked with residents' laundry hung out to dry.

The steep path led down to the narrow harbour bounded on either side by sheer cliffs that rose dramatically out of the water. Here, the houses appeared to be built into the cliff itself, their foundations at one with the cold, grey rock.

Looking out from the village, Carla's gaze skimmed over the deep blue of the sea that lay beneath the pale azure sky and stretched out towards the distant horizon.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in… and out… She smiled, relishing the knowledge that, for the first time in, she couldn't remember how long, forever probably, she was out of reach; out of reach of the constant demands on her time and energy; out of reach of the relentless disappointments that plagued her private life.

Here, right now, in this place, Carla could just be.

* * *

Peter locked the door of his rental car and followed the tasting signs towards the traditional Italian stone farmhouse that had been renovated to incorporate soaring walls of modern glass in a bid to lure in the international buyer.

According to the itinerary Brendan had reluctantly handed over to Peter, Carla was due to visit here, a certified producer of Aceto Balsamico Tradizionale di Modena, or balsamic vinegar, in the famous Parma Food Valley, this very morning.

But, on questioning the staff, Peter was dismayed to learn that Carla had cancelled her visit at the last minute. He immediately wondered whether Brendan had called her, warning her that Peter was on his way; whether she had cancelled to avoid seeing him.

There was only one way to find out.

Peter pulled out his mobile and quickly placed an international call.

"Brendan? It's Peter."

"Oh, hey, Peter," Brendan spoke hesitantly. "You arrive alright?"

"Yeah, I'm here. But that's not the problem."

"What? I don't…"

"I'm here, where you sent me," Peter said, indignant and increasingly irritable. "But Carla's not. They said she cancelled."

"Yeah, mate, I'm sorry, I should've messaged you or something."

"You knew?" Peter asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I got a message from her first thing asking me to cancel all her meetings today."

"Why?" Peter demanded.

"I don't know."

"Did she know I was coming?"

"Not from me," Brendan asserted.

"Are you sure?" Peter asked, suspicious and paranoid.

"Are you accusing me of lying?"

"No, I'm sorry. Of course not. I just… I don't know what to do."

"Umm… Mate, I don't know what to say."

"Can you call her?" Peter suggested hopefully. "Find out where she is?"

"Oh, no!" Brendan tried to distance himself. "No, I don't want to get involved."

"Please, Brendan, I'm begging you."

Brendan sighed; he knew Carla would be angry when she discovered that he had interfered in her private life, but he truly believed that Peter was sincere in his intentions towards her. Besides, he was a hopeless romantic and couldn't help but keep the faith for a happy ending.

"I can't promise anything," Brendan warned. "But I'll try."

* * *

"I'd just like to know where you are," Brendan insisted. "What's wrong with that?"

"It doesn't matter where I am," Carla declared, wondering why Brendan had called her, demanding to know what she was up to. "I'm not working, that's all you need to know."

"Okay," Brendan sighed, ready for the last throw of the dice. "Can you please just humour me, let me know you're alright."

"I'm alright."

"It's not like you to go AWOL from work, Carla. I'm worried about you."

"You win," Carla sighed with resignation. "I'll text you."

"You promise?"

"I just said so, didn't I?" Carla snapped.

"Thank you."

"Whatever," Carla rolled her eyes as she ended the call.

She stood staring at Riomaggiore in all its splendour; she had clambered out over the rocky groin by the harbour, called 'Marina Piccola', so she could gaze onto the village from the vantage point of the water. As her eyes travelled up from the small pleasure boats moored in front of her, up through the streets of the village, with its colourful buildings stacked precariously on top of each other, looking as if one strong gust of wind would cause them to topple into the water below, and up through the patchwork green of the terraced fields and the wildness of the steep hillside above it, she had an idea.

Her phone still gripped in her hand, she flicked on the phone app, flipping the lens in order to take a selfie. Framing the picture so that as much as possible of the harbour and village could be seen, as well as her own face of course, Carla smiled and took the picture.

Quickly drafting a message to Brendan, she sent him a copy of the selfie with the greeting "Wish you were here x".

Pleased with her little joke, Carla switched off her phone and tried to forget about Brendan, about home, about his obsession with knowing her every move. Instead, she allowed her gaze to travel along the coastline, northward to where the rugged northern Italian coastline rose out of the Ligurian sea to great heights, to where the four other villages that comprised the Cinque Terre lay waiting to be explored.

* * *

Carla stretched her body lazily, gingerly moving her limbs one-by-one, shaking off the prolonged inactivity, as she sat up from her chosen spot on the rocky ledge protruding out into the water near the ferry dock. Carla had spent the past hour reclining against the rocks, sunning herself and soaking in the warm rays as a gentle breeze whipped off the water and swept lightly across her skin.

She could have easily whiled away the time in this easy manner, but her stomach had other ideas; the groans that were emanating from her tummy were a clear indication that it was time Carla went on the hunt for food.

After a short walk along the path that hugged the side of the cliff, Carla was soon climbing up Via Colombo, the main thoroughfare of Riomaggiore, in search of the source of a certain local delicacy she had seen tourists and locals alike eating as they walked the streets or sat on the beach or otherwise enjoyed this quaint seaside village; a thin cardboard cone filled to the brim with fried seafood – white flaky fish, calamari, prawns, baby octopus, sardines – and a juicy wedge of lemon for squeezing.

As her eyes scanned the shopfronts, she caught a glimpse of something familiar; of someone familiar. Surely not, she thought to herself. How could he be here? It was impossible! She had decided it must be her imagination playing tricks on her when suddenly he stepped out of the crowd and stood before her. This wasn't her imagination, he wasn't a vision; this was real, he was real.

For a moment they stood and stared at each other, two faces so familiar to each other in the middle of a place entirely foreign to everything they'd ever known together.

Carla made the first move. She strode towards him, he reached out and wrapped his arms around her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. In the middle of this busy Italian village, they kissed, hungrily pressing their lips against the others' lips, their tongues sweeping across lips, pressing into mouths, their hands roaming freely, fingers raking through hair, gliding sensuously down necks and backs and…

"No!" Carla pushed Peter away angrily. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Peter was understandably shocked at Carla's sudden rejection.

"What am I doing? You're the one that grabbed me and kissed me!"

"I seem to be making a habit of that," Carla muttered before seeing the look of confusion on Peter's face. "Never mind. Why are you here?"

"I came to see you," Peter explained, as if a man flying over 500 miles on impulse to see his ex-wife was an everyday occurrence.

"But... how did you find me?"

"Oh," Peter was suddenly sheepish. "I may have had some help."

Peter pulled out his phone and showed her the selfie she had sent Brendan earlier.

"Remind me to fire him when we get back home."

"Don't blame him," Peter pleaded. "I begged him until he caved."

"I still don't know why you're here," Carla reiterated, staring at Peter intently. "What do you want, Peter?"

"I, umm… I wanted to explain why I went away so suddenly."

"To get on with your life, wasn't it?" Carla glared at him, one eyebrow raised in disdain.

"Well, yes, but not like you think. I wasn't –"

"You know what, Peter, I really don't want to do this now."

"But –"

"No!" Carla was insistent. "I thought about nothing else for days after you left. And I came here so I could stop thinking about it."

"You mean you're not going to give me a chance to explain? To tell you my news?"

"No, I'm not." Carla spoke decisively. "I'm not doing this, Peter, not today."

"You can't keep running away."

"I'm not running away."

"You are!" Peter cried in frustration. "You're refusing to talk to me!"

Carla breathed in deeply before exhaling with a long sigh. She gripped Peter gently by the arm and spun him around so that he was facing the harbour.

"Look where we are, Peter. Look!"

They both gazed for a moment on the beauty and wonder of their surroundings.

"Have you ever seen something more beautiful?"

"Yes." Peter wasn't looking at the view anymore; he had turned his head and was staring straight at Carla.

But Carla ignored Peter's blatant attempt to steer the conversation back to their relationship.

"I want to enjoy being here without any…" Carla struggled to find the right words as she turned to face Peter. "Without the drama of us."

"Do you want me to go? Is that what you're saying?"

"No," Carla shook her head. "I want us to pretend that we don't know each other."

"Wha–" Peter began to protest, but Carla pressed her finger against his mouth, silencing him, before continuing with her explanation.

"I want us to pretend that this is our first date."

Peter laughed; he couldn't imagine pretending not to know Carla inside out, not after everything they'd been through together.

"I'm serious," Carla insisted on going ahead with her idea. "Come on, it could be fun."

Peter looked at Carla. She was staring at him, a cheeky glint in her eye, an unspoken challenge. He couldn't resist; he never could when Carla wanted something badly enough.

"Okay, yeah," Peter nodded. "I'm up for it."

"Finally! Now give us your hand." Carla held out her hand to Peter.

"What?"

"Your hand. Give. It. To. Me."

"But..."

"It's okay, Peter, you're allowed to hold hands on a first date."

Peter smiled as he reached out and took Carla's hand in his, squeezing it gently.

"That wasn't hard, was it?"

"So… what now?"

"Well, I'm starving, so food would be my choice."

"Okay, what do you fancy?"

"A cone full of fried seafood."

"A cone… what?"

"Trust me, it's a thing here."

"Fried seafood in a cone it is."

* * *

After they had eaten their fill, the pair wandered hand-in-hand along the myriad of paths that were cut into the cliff, the rock-face soaring above them on one side, while on the other the rock fell away with a sheer drop into the water.

Even though he was desperate to share his news with her, Peter wisely avoided the topic of their relationship, and focused on enjoying their day together.

They walked as far as Manarola, the next village of the Cinque Terre, and explored the winding streets of the township that was nestled in a hollow in-between the terraced hillsides of the Ligurian coastline.

They stepped for a few moments of respite into the cool still interior of the Chiesa di San Lorenzo, the simple yet beautiful fourteenth century catholic church in the heart of the village, with its detached bell tower and stunning views of the town below and sea beyond, before making their way to the local gelataria.

"You choose for me," Carla instructed Peter. "Something you think I'll like."

"Oh no!" Peter protested. "That's asking for trouble."

"Go on," Carla pleaded with him. "I wanna see what you'll pick."

"Only if you pick mine."

"Deal."

"Okay…" Peter scanned the selection of gelato, hoping Carla's tastes hadn't changed too much over the years. "I'm getting you… the… Amarena, the sour cherry and vanilla."

Peter turned to look at Carla apprehensively, anxious to know if he'd made the right choice. But she merely smiled and turned to place her order.

"Bacio por favour," Carla addressed the server before turning to Peter. "Chocolate and hazelnut if you please."

Gelato in hand, they sauntered down towards the marina, licking the decadently creamy ice confection before it melted in the balmy evening heat.

"So…" Peter began. "How is it? The cherry?"

"Why don't you try it for yourself?"

Carla held the gelato cone to Peter's mouth, inviting him to taste. He licked the gelato, all the way up one side and ending by sucking a large chunk off the top.

"Oi!" Carla protested.

"Here, try mine."

It was Carla's turn to lick Peter's gelato; she did so, maintaining eye contact with Peter as her tongue glided up the cool and creamy treat. She couldn't help but copy Peter and take a large bite from the top of the gelato.

"I was asking for that wasn't I?" Peter said with a grin.

When they had finished their gelato and finally began their return journey along the cliff walk back to Riomaggiore, the sun was beginning its slow descent over the sea. They hurried to the other side of the village, eager to watch the sunset from the Riomaggiore beach.

Peter wrapped his arm around Carla's shoulder as they sat side-by-side on the large smooth rocks towards the rear of the beach, underneath the large retaining walls holding the mountain above at bay. She dropped her head to his shoulder, resting herself against him, snuggling into him as they watched the sun sink below the horizon, the sky slowly morphing into new and vibrant colours, from blue to brilliant orange to pink and, as the sun finally disappeared from view, a deep midnight blue.

As the darkness descended over the almost deserted beach, so did Carla's defences; she was ready to talk.

"What did you want to tell me?"

"Hmm...?" Peter murmured, still in a trance-like state after the magical sunset.

"You said you had some news," Carla reminded him.

"Oh," Peter tried to sound casual. "Just that I sold the Rovers."

"Is that why you went back to Weatherfield?"

"Yes," Peter confirmed.

"Is that it?" Carla demanded. "Is that what you followed me across Europe to tell me?"

"I bought a new business," Peter added mysteriously. "A workshop down by the harbour."

"Which harbour?"

"Your harbour."

"My harbour? In Devon?"

"The exact same one."

"And what exactly are you going to do with this workshop?"

"Buy old boats," Peter explained. "Do them up and sell them on."

"Kind of tricky to do that from Weatherfield, don't you think?" Carla observed, her heart beginning to pound against her chest in anticipation.

"That's why I'm moving down there," Peter revealed, suddenly nervous about Carla's reaction. "Me and Si."

"And where is it exactly that you are going to live?"

"With you."

"Good," Carla breathed a sigh of relief.

"You do realise I mean live with you," Peter was at pains to clarify. "And not as a lodger."

"I know."

Carla turned to Peter and smiled; a smile that removed all fear and doubt from Peter's mind. He leaned down and kissed her. Since coming back into each other's lives, they'd shared a number of kisses, but this one was different. This kiss came with the absolute certainty that they wanted each other, not just for a kiss or a night of passion, but for the everyday, the normal routine of life as they went about their business. Together.


	11. Chapter 11: Ti amo

_A quick note to thank everyone who has left reviews, not just for Seachange, but for all my stories. I really appreciate you taking the time to let me know your thoughts._

_This chapter follows on directly from where chapter 10 left off, so naturally needs a smut warning…_

* * *

**Chapter 11: Ti amo**

Carla's fingers raked through Peter's hair as she pulled his face closer towards hers. Her mouth parted slightly; her tongue swept across his lips as she hungrily kissed him. Peter met her tongue with his tongue, gliding it lightly across her lips before extending it into her mouth, pressing against her tongue, running along her tongue, all the way to the tip. As his tongue retreated back into his own mouth, he sucked gently on her lower lip. He reached around her body, running his hands up and down her back, stroking her gently, massaging her.

Carla's lips moved away from Peter's lips; she kissed his cheek, his jaw, his neck. Peter groaned as the lust rose within him. He dropped his head back, allowing Carla to nuzzle into him, to kiss him with a thousand soft kisses.

Suddenly, Peter reached out and, placing his hands on Carla's shoulders, gently pushed her away from him; there was one thing he needed to know.

"What's wrong?" Carla questioned, confused by his retreat.

"Is that it?" He asked, peering at her in the darkness. "We're back together, just like that?"

"Well..." Carla's brow furrowed. "I could put up more of a fight if you'd prefer?"

"No, that's not –"

"Listen," Carla reached out and stroked Peter's face gently, her fingers caught up in his beard that was a little bit longer, a little bit wilder, since he had come out of rehab. "We've been dancing around our feelings for way too long." She kissed him tenderly on the forehead before looking intently into his eyes. "I love you, okay?"

Peter smiled as his heart flipped; he'd waited years to hear Carla say those words to him again.

"Baby," Carla prompted him impatiently. "That's your cue."

"I know you do," Peter countered cheekily.

"Oi!" Carla whacked him on the arm playfully.

Peter's first response was to kiss her tenderly on the lips as he sighed gently into her mouth. And then the words Carla was desperate to hear. "I love you too," he spoke softly, with sincerity. "Always have. Always will."

They kissed again; but not the sentimental kiss of love and of promise this time. This time their kiss was one of lust, of a desire that would not be sated.

While their lips mashed against each other's, their tongues wrestling for passionate dominion, their hands were frantic. Peter reached for the hem of Carla's top, pushing his hands underneath the fabric and up the smooth, warm skin of her tummy to cup her breasts as they lay confined in the lacy prison of her bra. Carla's hands reached first for his belt buckle and, once that was undone and dispersed with, the button and zip of his jeans. She reached her hand into his jeans, searching for his cock that was stiffening by the second.

As Carla's hand gripped Peter's cock, she slipped down onto the sand in front of the rock they were sitting on and kneeled in front of Peter. With one hand gripped around the shaft of his now hard and throbbing cock, and moving up and down in a firm, steady movement, and with the other hand fondling his balls, cupping them in the palm of her hand, squeezing them gently, Carla leaned forward and, taking the tip of his cock into her mouth, sucked gently on it. She swirled her tongue around the tip, her hands never stopping their work, before sucking on it again, her tongue flattening against the base, pressing against it, stimulating it.

Removing her hands from his cock and from his balls, Carla looked up at Peter. She grinned up at him as he gazed lustfully down at her. She kissed his penis gently, never breaking eye contact with him. She licked it, from the base to the tip. She sucked again on the tip, a long slow suck as she let the tip slip out of her mouth, the gentle release of suction causing Peter to gasp.

Peter reached down and, raking his fingers through her hair, gently pushed her head towards his cock. Knowing what he so desperately wanted, to feel his cock pressed against the back of her throat, she couldn't help but tease him a little longer. She pressed forward, but not to take his cock into her mouth; to suck on his balls instead.

"Oh, baby! Please!" Peter begged.

And so she stretched her mouth wide around his cock and, with lips sealed tight around his shaft, took him all the way into her mouth. Then, slowly at first, smoothly, she pulled back, then forward, then back, allowing his cock to glide in and out of her mouth, her lips sucking gently, her tongue pressing against him. As her movements gradually became firmer, a strong, steady rhythm, she clasped her hand once again around the bottom of his shaft and moved it, up and down, in unison with her mouth.

Peter leaned back, his arms stretched out behind him on the rock, supporting his body as he moaned in ecstasy and a near-orgasmic rapture. He was close, so close, but he didn't want to come, not now. So he reached forward and, gently holding Carla, with a hand on either side of her head, guided her to her feet and back onto the rock, where his lips once again sought out her lips, his mouth opened and his tongue pressed into her mouth, glided against her tongue, and tasted himself on her tongue, on her lips.

Again, he reached underneath her top, pushing it up all the way, over her arms and her shoulders, and over her head, to be tossed aside on the rock. He reached around her body, unclasping her bra with skill and pulling it away from her breasts which now stood, naked and pert in the soft moonlight, her nipples already hard with arousal, like little pebbles.

Peter lowered his head to Carla's breasts, taking one of her pebble-like nipples in his mouth and sucking on it gently. He kissed her breasts, burying his face into their soft mounds, while his hands reached for her waist, gripping her curves, stroking her skin.

Standing in front of her, he gently pushed her back until she was lying on the rock. Then, kneeling on the sand, he moved his kisses from her breasts down over her tummy and to the waistband of her jeans. He quickly unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans and, pushing the fabric to either side, planted little kisses all the way down to where the slit of her pussy gave only the smallest hint of what lay beneath. He slipped his tongue in as far as he could, but her jeans impeded his access. So, with the help of Carla raising her hips off the rock, he pulled her jeans, along with her lacy thong, down over her hips, down her legs and over her ankles.

One by one, he moved her legs so that they were spread out either side of her body. With her legs splayed, her pussy was laid bare for him, for his gaze to linger on, his fingers to touch, his tongue to lick, and his cock to penetrate.

Reaching out, he slipped a finger inside Carla's pussy. A gasp escaped Carla's lips as Peter bent his finger inside her, pressing against her walls, before pulling his finger out of her and spreading her own juices over her clit. He gently massaged her now lubricated and increasingly stimulated clit, running his finger over it, around it, pressing down on it, gently at first then, as her arousal grew, so did his pressure. Reaching back and plunging two fingers now into her vagina, Peter leaned forward and licked Carla's clit.

"Ow!"

"Are you okay?" Peter raised his head from her pussy, looking up to her face. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, it's not you," Carla explained. "It's this damn rock! It's digging into me back something rotten!"

"Oh, right," Peter's mind began to race, searching for a solution before the moment faded. "I guess getting frisky on an Italian beach in the moonlight sounds romantic in theory, but in reality…"

"A bit uncomfortable, yeah."

"It's a two-hour drive back to Parma," Peter lamented.

"I don't want to drive through the mountains in the dark," Carla was adamant. "Why don't we get a room here?"

"Yes!" Peter agreed without hesitation. "Great idea."

So Carla pulled out her mobile and searched accommodation sites for local vacancies while Peter peered over her shoulder, scanning the results. She scrolled down the listings, both of them on the lookout for the perfect place to consummate their rekindled relationship.

"Ooh," Carla purred with sudden inspiration. "Look at the tub in that room."

Peter looked at the hotel Carla was pointing at. A lavish king room in a guesthouse overlooking the sea, with its own private terrace and a luxurious tub for two positioned by the floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded stunning views stretching as far as the eye could see.

"Wow!"

"It's available as well," Carla noted, her excitement rising. "It's a sign, baby. Shall we book it?"

"Okay, let's do it!" Peter agreed enthusiastically. "Actually, I could do with a good soak, I haven't had a bath since I left Weatherfield."

"And here I was hoping we'd be getting nice and dirty," Carla regretted with a cheeky grin. "But if you'd rather just have a bath, get an early night, catch up on your sleep…?"

"_You_ know what I'd rather be doing…"

Carla was left in no doubt about Peter's intentions when he kissed her, his hands reaching to cradle her head, pressing her lips into his, their mounting passion threatening to derail their hot tub plans as their naked bodies once again leaned into each other on this impossibly romantic moonlit Italian beach.

* * *

Peter closed his eyes and leaned back, his body supported by the end of the tub as the hot water swirled around him.

"Hey," Carla's soft voice brought Peter's mind back to the moment; back to that hotel room in Riomaggiore.

He opened his eyes; a sharp intake of breath when he first saw Carla standing naked by the side of the tub, the outline of her body lit dimly from one side by the moonlight and from the other by the lamp they'd left illuminated on the bedside table. He gazed on her body, on her pert breasts and the soft shadow they cast over her abdomen, down to her pussy, it's hidden depths beckoning to him. He felt his cock twitch back into life as he stared at her pussy.

Feeling the intensity of his gaze bore into her very soul, she instinctively reached for her pussy, revelling in the excitement that spread over his face as she gently massaged her clit with her finger, reaching back to slip her finger inside herself, before once again moving her finger around and over her clit. She smiled in satisfaction at the short, staggered breaths that came from Peter's mouth as he watched her, and the sight of his hand as it moved through the water and gently tugged at his cock.

Gingerly, she stepped into the tub and slowly sank into the warm water, allowing it to wrap around her body like a comforting hug, until she was almost completely submerged. She leaned back so that her breasts emerged like little islands bobbing in the water and smiled across at Peter sitting at the opposite end of the tub.

"Come here," Peter held out his hand to her, pulling her towards him. He motioned for her to sit in front of him, her back to him, his legs wrapped around her body and stretched out either side of her legs.

He leaned down and kissed her shoulder as his hands skimmed down her arms and reached around her body, searching for her breasts. Carla leaned her head to the side as Peter planted soft little kisses all the way up her shoulder to her neck, nuzzling into her. His left hand softly massaged Carla's left breast while his right hand moved down her body, seeking out her clit once again. She instinctively raised her knees and dropped them either side of her body, granting access to Peter's hands and fingers as he first stimulated her clit before penetrating her vagina with his fingers.

Feeling his erect cock pressing into the small of her back, Carla moved away from Peter momentarily, turning around in the water to face him.

"Now you come here," Carla crooked her finger at him, motioning him towards her.

He obeyed, shuffling his body so that he was sat in the centre of the tub facing Carla, his legs stretched out, almost cross-legged in front of him. Tentatively, she moved closer to him, sitting in his lap and positioning her legs so they were wrapped around his body. Clutching onto the side of the bath with one hand to steady herself, Carla reached beneath her with her other hand, gripping Peter's penis and guiding it inside her vagina as she slowly lowered herself onto him, engulfing his cock deep inside her.

She kissed his lips softly, her tongue making a gentle sweep of his lips, as she ground her pelvis into his, moving from side-to-side and then around in a circular motion as she clenched her pelvic muscles around his throbbing cock.

With slow, gentle movements, Carla rocked her hips backwards and forwards over Peter's cock, allowing it to glide in and out of her vagina. As her arse moved backward, the friction of his dick against her clit as it almost slipped out of her pussy caused her to cry out in ever-growing ecstasy. Then she moved her hips forward, taking his cock deep inside her vagina once more, clenching her walls arounds his shaft as he thrust forward to meet her.

As she continued to rock and grind against him and he thrust into her, their lips met time and again, lips against lips, tongues against tongues, hands touching faces, bodies, breasts.

The water swirled around their bodies, small waves splashing against the sides of the bath and back against their bodies as they gently fucked, their eyes constantly seeking out the other's eyes, their connection much more than purely physical; it was almost spiritual, on another plane.

As their rocking and thrusting became faster and their breathing more frantic, the little waves began to splash over the sides of the bath and onto the floor. And still they continued to fuck, Peter's cock thrust deep into Carla's pussy, her walls clenched with an increasing steady rhythm. Peter clung onto Carla's waist, while she grasped the edges of the bath as the final few deep, hard thrusts pushed them both over the edge and into blissful oblivion. Carla's walls spasmed around Peter's cock as a load of hot sticky cum shot out of him deep inside her.

Peter leaned his head back, his lust finally sated. Carla leaned forward, resting her head on his shoulder, her legs still wrapped around his body, trapping his throbbing cock inside her as they came down from their orgasmic high.

* * *

His eyes still closed in the early morning light, Peter reached out for Carla, wanting to feel her naked body against his, her soft skin tingling under his touch. But she wasn't there. Slowly, he opened his eyes just a crack, allowing them to adjust to the light before opening them fully.

And there she was; standing at the railing of their private terrace looking out over the Ligurian Sea, still hazy in the dim light. She was naked, her soft curves illuminated by the light beyond, the round of her breasts curving in to the small of her waist then out again to her hips. Peter gazed on those hips, on her arse, and below to that gap at the top of her thighs where that place lay hidden, that place Peter had been the night before, not only in the bath, but a few more times in the bed during the night.

Thoughts began to race through Peter's mind at the sight of Carla's naked body; thoughts about what he'd like to do with her, do to her. His cock already stiffening, Peter instinctively reached down and, taking his penis in his hand, began to masturbate.

Carla leaned against the terrace railing, delighting in the feel of the gentle breeze as it whispered over her naked body. She thought back over the past twenty-four hours, at the changes that had happened in her life. This time yesterday, she had left Parma, running away from her responsibilities, from her life, in search of freedom. She'd found not only freedom, but something much more precious. She'd found love, a love she had thought was gone forever. But she had been wrong; it wasn't gone, it was merely in hibernation. And it was here to stay, here to stay forever.

She gasped as she felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her waist from behind; a pair of familiar arms, arms that made Carla feel safe.

"Good morning," Peter whispered into her ear before planting a soft kiss on her cheek.

"Morning." Carla breathed in deeply before exhaling with a long sigh of contentment.

They stood there for a time, cheek pressed against cheek, body against body, and gazed out onto the Ligurian Sea, watching as boats headed out for a morning of fishing, bobbing on the waves, looking no bigger than children's toys from this distance.

And then Carla became aware of a familiar sensation in her back; the sensation of Peter's erection pressed into her body, of Peter gently rubbing his cock against her skin.

"Again?" Carla murmured as she pressed her body back against Peter's cock, increasing the friction, the excitement.

"Always."


	12. Chapter 12: The times they are a-changin

**Chapter 12: The times they are a-changin'**

Peter paused for a moment, his breath coming in short, laboured gasps, as he leaned up against the side of the car, exhausted from his exertions.

"Stop slacking, dad," Simon said, jovially nudging Peter with his shoulder as he carried yet another box to the car and nestled it into place in the boot. "We're not done yet."

"Yeah, alright," Peter gasped, a scowl darkening his brow. "Just having a breather."

"Face it, dad," Simon teased, a cheeky grin on his face, as he passed his father on his way back inside the house. "You're getting old."

"Oi!"

"And soft!"

"You're not too old to go over my knee," Peter threatened as he followed Simon inside.

"You'd have to catch me first," Simon laughed as he picked up a box, weighed it carefully in his hands, and passed it to Peter. "Here, this one's light, you should be able to handle it."

Peter shook his head as he took the box from Simon and turned on his heel towards the car. He smiled to himself at the light-hearted banter between himself and his son. Far from being cross at being called 'old' and 'soft', he delighted in it; relishing the fact that Simon felt comfortable enough with him to tease him in this way. This lad was a world away from that sullen and aggressive child that had caused so many problems the first time he had embarked on a relationship with Carla. Peter was thankful that this time Simon and Carla's relationship would not be a problem.

* * *

"So," Ken said as he stood by the front door of his long-time home and looked over the car, jam-packed with boxes, and his son and grandson standing on the footpath, nervously shuffling their feet from side-to-side, neither prepared for this final goodbye. "You're ready for the off?"

"Yep."

"You and Carla back together," Ken mused. "Who would have thought it."

"Not me, that's for sure," Peter freely admitted. "Not after everything I did to her."

"I am so proud of you, Peter," Ken said as he placed his hand gently on his son's shoulder. "You've come a long way."

"Oh, dad," Peter sighed. "I know I've caused you so much worry over the years."

"Well, not anymore," Ken said. "Thank goodness for that."

"What? You saying you don't worry about me anymore?"

"A parent will always worry about their child," Ken admitted. "That's natural. But not as much now. Not now you're truly happy."

"I am," Peter nodded. "I really am. But, dad…"

"What is it?"

"I feel bad about leaving you."

"Don't," Ken said firmly. "You're going to be with your family. How can I begrudge you that happiness by feeling sad for myself?"

"Thanks, dad," Peter said, throwing his arms around his father and holding him close. "You know you can come down and visit anytime you want, don't you? Carla would be made up to see you."

"I'll take you up on that," Ken promised as father and son broke apart. "Now, you two better get going or you'll get stuck in traffic."

"Yeah," Peter said as he tried desperately to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. Saying goodbye to his dad had been harder than he had expected. "Si, come and say goodbye to your grand – oh, god," Peter sighed as he spotted Leanne marching down the street towards them.

"Mum?" Simon asked hesitantly. "What are you…? I thought we'd said goodbye already? Did I forget something?"

"Well, that's the thing, Si," Leanne said breathlessly, her words tumbling over themselves. "We said goodbye, but I don't want to say goodbye, I don't think I should have to say goodbye. Because I don't want you to go." She took a deep breath. "Don't go, Si. Please stay."

"Mum, don't," Simon begged her. "I have to go."

"No, you don't," Leanne argued. "Just because your dad is going doesn't mean you have to go with him. You've got a choice, Si. And I want you to stay here. Where I can look after you. You belong here, Si. With me. You don't have to do everything your dad tells you."

"Lee, stop it!" Peter interjected. "You're upsetting him."

"I'm upsetting him?" Leanne asked incredulously as she rounded on Peter. "I'm the one that's upsetting him? I'm not the one dragging him to the other side of the country to live with a woman who, well, who knows with her how long it'll last this time before it goes belly up and you're uprooting him again, dragging him across the country again."

"Lee, that's not fair."

"What?" Leanne spat at Peter. "What's not fair? Telling the truth? Because you and Carla are a car crash waiting to happen, Peter. Always have been, always will be. And it's my job to keep Simon safe from the pair of you self-destructing."

"Thing are different this time," Peter said.

"I don't believe it," Leanne shook her head, her lip curled into a sneer. "And I'm not taking the risk. Si, you don't have to go."

"I want to go," Simon was firm. "I want to live with dad."

"And Carla," Leanne added bitterly.

"Yeah, alright, and with Carla. Because, you know what, she makes my dad happy, so that makes her alright by me. And if I hadn't been such a brat last time then things might've turned out differently."

"Si," Peter said. "It wasn't your fault."

"I didn't help did I?"

"Don't blame yourself, Si," Leanne said. "It was that woman's fault. No one else's."

"You never gave her enough credit," Simon argued.

"What does that mean? I only ever wanted what was best for you."

"Good then," Simon said. "Because going with dad now is what's best for me."

"And what about me?"

"You've been a great mum –"

"Been," Leanne said, the word almost getting caught in her throat. "Past tense."

"I didn't mean…"

"No, no, it's fine. Don't you worry about me, I'll be just fine. You go. Go and enjoy your new life. I'll be just fine without you."

Without another word, Leanne turned and rushed away. She had to get away quickly, the last thing she wanted was for her son to see the tears that were now flooding down her cheeks.

"Mum!" Simon called after her.

But she didn't stop or even hesitate at the sound of her son's distressed voice; she just kept on walking.

"Si," Peter said softly. "We gotta get going."

"But, dad!"

"We need to get on the road, mate," Peter was firm, but he softened at the sight of Simon's tortured face. "Give her a call later, yeah? After she's calmed down."

Simon looked from his dad's sympathetic face to where his mum had nearly disappeared from view, the fury in her gait still clearly visible.

"Yeah," he agreed. "There's no talking to her when she's like this."

* * *

"Will you stop pacing!" Brendan said, glancing up at Carla as he cut paper thin slices of cucumber.

"What?"

"You! You'll wear a hole in the floor the rate you're going."

"Sorry," Carla said, stopping in her tracks and glancing about the kitchen, wondering what to do next. "I'm just…"

"Nervous?"

"Very."

"Why don't you do something to take your mind off it?"

"Yeah," Carla said, exhaling slowly and loudly. "That's a good idea. I'll, umm… I'll get the menus for tonight printed, yeah, that's what I'll do."

"Already done," Brendan said.

"Oh," Carla said, taken aback by Brendan's efficiency, or her redundancy, she wasn't sure which. "Where –?"

"On the chef's table," Brendan nodded to the long wooden table that filled the little alcove off to the side of the kitchen.

Carla hurried over to the table and picked up one of the freshly printed menus for that night's service, her eyes scanning the twelve-course menu…

_Broad bean, dill and goats cheese bruschetta_  
_Spicy gazpacho with marinated cherry tomatoes_  
_Roasted Sardinian-style peppers with garlic, anchovies and crispy basil leaves_  
_Beef fillet carpaccio, quick-pickled beetroot and fresh chervil_  
_Devon crab pancakes with cucumber and herbed mayonnaise_  
_Verjuice glazed quail with grilled polenta and charred grapes_  
_Oven-baked trout with baby fennel_  
_Seared pork fillet, sweetcorn salsa, caramelised apple sauce_  
_Triple-cooked beef short ribs, brown sugar and balsamic vinaigrette, herb salad_  
_Raspberry champagne sorbet_  
_Baked caramelised fig and ricotta tart_  
_House made oat cakes, cave-aged blue cheese, perry jelly_

"This looks good," Carla enthused as she wandered back to the chef's station. "Is this the…?"

"For the pancakes," Brendan affirmed. "We're doing this as a sharing plate. We'll have a stack of pancakes and the diners will assemble it themselves," he explained, nodding to the array of ingredients he was preparing. "Crab meat from local Devon crab of course, these cucumber ribbons, herbed mayo…" He watched as Carla picked at the containers, taking one of his test pancakes and loading it with each of the ingredients as he listed them off. "There's also slivers of preserved lemon, a sprinkling of sumac…"

Carla folded the filled pancake over and stuffed as much of it into her mouth as she could. "Oh, that's well tasty," she mumbled as she chewed the remainder of the pancake and swallowed it, a look of supreme satisfaction on her face.

"Do you mind," Brendan said as he stared aghast at Carla.

"What?"

"We won't be serving anything if you keep eating it all."

"I don't know what you mean," Carla said innocently as she dug a spoon into the crab meat and popped the delicacy into her mouth. "This is quality control."

"This is emotional eating."

"Don't you dare try to psychoanalyse me."

"Then stop eating all the food!"

"What can I say? I'm a nervous eater," she confessed. "You know, I used to chew on me hair when I was a kid."

"What? When you were nervous about something?"

"Yeah," Carla nodded, eyeing the figs Brendan was now caramelising over a low heat in a heavy cast iron pan with interest. "Then I graduated to coffee cups, you know, the disposable ones, used to shred them to pieces."

"And now?"

"Now?" Carla said, aiming her recriminations squarely at Brendan. "Thanks to you, I've moved on to real food. Speaking of which, what about dinner tonight?"

"You've seen the menu."

"You know that's not what I meant," Carla said. "What about my dinner? Mine and the boys."

"You've got the local pizza place on speed dial, don't you?"

"Brendan!" Carla exclaimed. "I want tonight to be special. A proper homecoming. Especially for Simon. You know the last time we lived together didn't quite go to plan. I want, no, I need this time to be different. I can't order flaming pizza. What kind of a welcome is that?"

"Calm down," Brendan said, amused at her rant. "Geeze! You really are worried about this move, aren't you?"

"Yes," Carla said emphatically. "Which is why I'd appreciate a bit of support."

"Over there," Brendan nodded to a small cooler box on wheels in the corner.

"Is that…?"

"Chicken dhansak, pappadums and pilau rice," Brendan explained, a glint in his eye.

"Chicken dhansak…" Carla stared at him incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"Well… I remember you telling me how you and Peter always enjoyed an Indian takeaway. How chicken dhansak was one of your favourites."

"I can't remember that conversation."

"To be fair, you were kinda wasted at the time."

"Oh, god," Carla sighed before laughing, how could she not. "Yeah, umm… that does sound like me, doesn't it?"

"I hope that's okay?" Brendan asked in trepidation. "The boys will like it?"

"They'll love it," Carla nodded tearfully. "And so do I."

Carla stepped towards Brendan and wrapped her arms around him, enveloping him in a friendly embrace.

"Hey," Brendan tried to keep the moment light-hearted. "It's just a curry."

"It's not," Carla said, sniffing back the tears. "And you know it. It's true friendship is what it is."

"Yeah, well, gotta keep the boss happy, don't I?"

"Thank you," Carla said sincerely as she pulled back and looked Brendan square in the eyes. "Really. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Hey," Brendan said as his voice also faltered. "Don't go getting emotional on me, you know I don't do crying women."

"Sorry," Carla sniffed. "It's just… this is really big for me and Peter. I never thought this would be our life again. You know, together. Properly together."

"Well, it is," Brendan said, reaching out and placing his hands gently on Carla's shoulders. "So, why don't you get out of here and go enjoy this new life of yours. You deserve it, kid."

* * *

"You're quiet," Peter observed, glancing across at Simon in the passenger seat as he manoeuvred the car along the motorway on their journey south. "You're not regretting your decision to come with me, are you?"

"No," Simon reassured him. "I just… I wish mum could be happy for me."

"Give her time."

"I've sent her heaps of messages but she's not replied. She's angry at me."

"No," Peter said. "No, son, don't think that. She's sad you're leaving, of course she is. But, once she calms down and thinks about it properly, she'll see it's the right thing for you. And then she'll be happy for you."

"Really?" Simon asked, turning to his dad with a silent plea in his eyes. "You really think she'll be happy for me?"

"Yeah, of course she will be," Peter spoke in low, soothing tones. "You know when me and Carla left in twenty-twelve? To go sailing?"

"Yeah."

"It almost killed me to leave you behind," Peter confessed, his voice thick with emotion. "Walking away from you. But I knew I had to go. That going was the best thing for me. And I understood why you chose to stay. Because that was the best thing for you. And your mum… she'll understand that you coming with me today is the best thing for you. Even if it hurts her to let you go."

"I guess when you explain it like that," Simon said thoughtfully. "So you think I just give her time for it to stop hurting and she'll be alright?"

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

Carla walked through her home, through that little stone cottage, nestled in the rolling hills of Devon, where a short stroll through meandering fields provided access to the beautiful and dangerous shoreline. A home that would that very day no longer be just hers, but would also be the home of Peter and Simon Barlow. Her family. The thought brought a smile to her lips.

The smile disappeared as swiftly as it came as she hurried through the house, checking room after room, anxious that everything would be just 'so' for when the boys finally arrived. She needn't have worried; the cottage was immaculately clean, thanks to the professional cleaner she had hired to give the place a good bottoming.

The Indian food Brendan had prepared for their dinner was in the kitchen, his detailed re-heating instructions fastened securely to the fridge which she'd filled with Peter and Simon's favourite drinks and snacks.

She wanted desperately for both of them, especially Simon, to feel at home. More so, to feel at home with her. Despite her and Simon's greatly improved relationship over the years, she couldn't quite escape the fear that history would repeat itself, that Simon would take against her and their fledgling family unit would be blown apart by resentment and anger. She had never forgiven herself for being the catalyst to Peter losing custody of his son, his own flesh and blood, to Leanne. For being the person who indirectly caused him so much pain.

And so she channelled all of her nervous tension into the one thing she could control; the physical readiness of the house. She walked yet again from room to room, checking and re-checking, hoping and praying, and waiting.

* * *

Simon pressed his temple up against the coolness of the passenger side window as he watched green fields, tracts of trees, tiny villages, and rambling rivers slip by as he and his dad neared their final destination on the remote Devon coastline.

But he didn't see any of this scenery, he didn't see the beauty of the English countryside that surrounded them, not really. His thoughts were focused solely on the phone in his hands, on the multitude of text messages he'd sent his mum since they'd left Weatherfield hours earlier, and on the fact that she had replied to not one of those messages.

He sighed; although he'd agreed with his dad to give Leanne time to get used to him leaving, to give her a chance to reach out to him in her own good time, he couldn't help but once again unlock his phone and open the messages app.

He scrolled up and down the screen, scanning his sent messages.

_Are you ok?  
__Mum?  
__Are you mad at me?  
__I'm sorry  
__It's not fair of you to be mad at me because I wanna be with my dad  
__I still love you  
__Are you ignoring me?  
__MUM!  
__Stop ignoring me!  
__I feel bad that I made you unhappy  
__Do you hate me?  
__I promise I won't love Carla as much as I love you  
__Hellooooooo! Is anybody there?  
__Mum! Please reply  
__Mum?_

But there had been no reply.

And so Simon continued to stare out of the window, at the fields and the trees, the hills and the valleys as they flashed by when…

_Bzzz bzzz bzzz _

His phone vibrated in his hands.

He rushed to unlock his phone and eagerly read the message that was waiting for him.

_Of course I'm not angry with you and I don't hate you, I could never hate you. I was being selfish. I'm sorry. I love you more than anything so if you're happy with the move then that's good enough for me. Have a safe trip and please enjoy yourself. Don't worry about me. I miss you so much already but I'm happy for you as well. I just want you to be happy. Love you forever, mum xxx_

The message that he had been waiting for; praying for. Simon read it again and again and smiled each time. He felt a weight lift off his young shoulders as his mum's blessing sunk in, at the knowledge that nothing was holding him back anymore.

He was suddenly impatient to arrive, to start his new life, in this new place. His eyes scanned the signs that flew by on the side of the motorway, with names of towns he didn't yet recognise, and the miles still to travel.

He turned to his dad and asked with all the impatience of a teenage lad, "Dad, how much longer til we get there?"

* * *

Carla stood at the window of what would soon become Simon's bedroom. She peered out of the window, watching, waiting. She'd chosen this room to wait in because it was the one room in the whole house that afforded a glimpse of the approaching road. It was here that she would have the earliest warning that they were almost home.

For what seemed an eternity, Carla watched and waited until, with a sudden nervous flip of her stomach, she spotted it; Peter's car.

Without a moment's hesitation, Carla rushed from the window and ran down the stairs and out the front door, eager to be right there waiting for the new arrivals when they pulled up in front of the house.

She stood on her front porch as the sound of the crunch of car tyres on crushed limestone gave way to the vision of the car itself appearing around the sweep of the driveway, Peter behind the wheel, a smile spreading across his face the moment he caught sight of Carla, and Simon in the passenger seat, glancing nervously at her.

Carla feared she would burst with impatience as the car rolled to a stop in front of her and father and son clambered out of their seats, stretching their limbs gingerly after their long journey.

And then Carla was upon them; first was Peter. Without any hint of embarrassment that Simon was watching them, she rushed to her love, reaching to clasp his face between her hands while his hands reached around her waist and pulled her close to him. Their lips met in a passionate kiss, their relief and joy at finally being reunited breaking down all barriers and, for a time, all they knew was each other, the feel of each other's lips, the heat of each other's breath, the electricity sparking off each other's body.

"Welcome home, baby," Carla whispered to Peter when eventually they broke away from their kiss.

Disentangling herself from Peter's embrace, Carla then turned to Simon who suddenly came over all shy and awkward at the apprehension of how to greet Carla. But he needn't have worried; Carla simply wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly in greeting, a loving welcome to his new home.

* * *

"He's spark out," Peter said as he softly closed the French doors behind him and padded out to where Carla was stood on the terrace, drinking in the peace and solitude of the night. "I'm not surprised, it's been a long day."

"Mmm…" Carla murmured as she felt Peter's arms snake around her waist, his lips on the nape of her neck, as he stood behind her. "How is he, do you think? I mean, with the move, this place… Me?"

"He's doing just fine," Peter reassured her.

"Are you sure?" Carla asked, still anxious about their new family dynamic, as she twisted around in Peter's arms to face him directly. "I want him to feel at home, you know, to –"

"Ssshhhh…" Peter shushed her, placing a soft kiss on her lips to take away her worry. "He does, trust me."

"And dinner was –"

"Perfect," Peter said, kissing her again, on her lips, on her cheek, on the tip of her nose. "Brendan I take it?"

"How did you guess," Carla replied with a laugh. "He's been so supportive, Peter. Before you arrived I was going a bit, umm…"

"You were overthinking things?"

"Yeah, that's a nice way of putting it," Carla nodded with a smile. "I was really worried, Peter, that things would go wrong again, that Simon would hate me."

"Simon loves you," Peter said firmly. "There's nothing left for you to worry about, love."

"No?" she asked, looking him in the eye with an almost pleading look, wanting any kind of reassurance he could give her.

"Nothing at all."

With a loud exhale, Carla wrapped her arms around Peter and rested her cheek on his shoulder, her safe place, as he gently stroked her hair and planted little kisses on her temple.

"Listen," Peter whispered, breaking the silence that had descended over the couple. "Can you hear that?"

They both listened to the silence. But of course, silence didn't really exist. Here in the Devon countryside, the silence was filled with sounds of the fields straddling the hills and the valleys, of the gentle wind caressing the leaves, of the insects chirping happily in the night, and in the distance, the unmistakeable sound of the waves crashing onto the shore, the power of the water hypnotically drawing them in to the magic of the ocean, the bewitchment that those who chose to live by the seaside felt daily as they fell under its spell.

"The sound of home."


	13. Chapter 13: The BBQ

**Chapter 13: The BBQ**

"Did you get everything?" Carla asked, rummaging through the shopping bags Peter had dumped onto the kitchen island.

"Yes, love."

"Because you forgot the list!" Carla waved a sheet of paper at Peter as he headed back to the car.

"Who needs a list," Peter turned to face Carla, tapping his head with his finger. "When you've got this brain?"

Carla shook her head as Peter disappeared through the door with a grin, and then started unpacking the grocery haul; there was meat, so much meat, vegetables, bread rolls, chips and dips, soft drink, juice, beer. Beer.

"This is the last load," Peter declared as he placed shopping bags bulging with all sorts of goodies onto the countertop.

"What's this?" Carla asked, holding up a six-pack of beer.

"That's beer, love."

"You bought beer?"

"I bought some wine as well."

"What the hell are you playing at, Peter?"

"Oh, no, no way!" Peter was suddenly defensive. "You think these are for me? I'm so happy to discover that our relationship is built on trust. Thanks very much."

"It is," Carla insisted. "But I need you to explain yourself. Why did you buy it?"

"What's happening here this afternoon?"

"Umm… We're having a barbeque."

"And who's coming?"

"Lots of people. Peter, I don't –"

"Lots of people who might like a drink, because that's what people do," Peter said. "I'm just trying to be a good host. I won't bother next time."

"Oh, Peter, no, I'm sorry," Carla said. "It's very thoughtful, but are you sure you're okay with this? Having alcohol in the house. I mean, we agreed that we wouldn't. I don't mind not drinking, you know. Not if it helps you stay sober."

"I know," Peter said, pausing for just a moment to peck Carla on the lips. "And I appreciate the sentiment, but… we're throwing a party, love. I want everyone to have a good time."

"I dunno…" Carla said with furrowed brow; she didn't want to risk Peter's sobriety, not after he'd fought so hard for it.

"Trust me, yeah?" Peter said, reaching out and brushing his fingers lightly over Carla's cheek, grazing along the delicate skin of her neck, his hand eventually coming to rest on her shoulder. "I'm not going back to that dark place. No way. Not ever."

A smile played on Carla's lips; she couldn't help it, she believed him, believed in him.

"I love you," she whispered as she kissed him softly on the lips.

"I know you do."

"So," Carla turned her attention back to the groceries scattered over the counter. "Did you manage to get everything?"

"Relax, okay, it's all under control," Peter said. "You don't have to worry about a thing."

"Yes, but, I am in charge of salads, remember?"

"About that…"

"What?" Carla asked, affronted by Peter's inference. "I can make a salad, you know. I mean, how hard can it be? Chop a few veg, chuck 'em in a bowl, pour a bit of dressing on top and voila… salad made."

"Hmm…" Peter wasn't convinced. "If you need any help…?"

"I won't!" Carla declared with absolute certainty. "Now get that tush of yours out to the barbeque. That's where a man belongs."

"Well, it does need a clean," Peter said with a grimace. "Give me a shout if you need a hand with anything."

"Out!"

Peter grinned as he made his way through the living room towards the French doors leading to the terrace.

"Hey Si," he spoke to his son, who sat firmly ensconced in the comfy sofa cushions, game controller in his hand, gaze focused on the television. "Do you wanna give me a hand, mate?"

"Nah," Simon replied without tearing his eyes away from the screen. "Busy."

* * *

"I hope you're gonna move that lazy behind of yours off the sofa when the guests arrive, Si." Carla looked across at Simon as she stirred the saucepan of couscous on the stovetop.

"Hmm…?" Simon muttered, his gaze remaining fixed on the TV.

"I said, I hope you're going to be sociable this afternoon? Especially with Felix. You remember I told you about Felix? Bella's lad."

"Yeah, whatever."

Carla shook her head and focused her attention on the couscous that had suddenly transformed into an unappetising thick, sludgy mess. She raised the wooden spoon and let the gloop that covered it fall back into the saucepan with a splodge.

"What on earth?" she said in despair, scanning the back of the couscous box for cooking instructions. "I don't understand what these words mean."

She read and re-read the box, her brow furrowed with a mixture of concentration and frustration. She was determined to get this right and prove to Peter that she could be trusted with something as simple as a roasted vegetable couscous salad.

"Is something burning?" Simon asked calmly from his position on the sofa.

"What?"

"I'd check the oven if I were you," Simon suggested helpfully, a grin playing on the corners of his mouth.

"Oh," Carla turned around and, noticing the smoke escaping from the edges of the oven door, rushed to rescue her roasted vegetables. "Damn!" she cursed as she opened the oven to survey the damage, only to be engulfed by a cloud of hot steam that smarted her eyes.

As the steam cleared, she pulled the baking tray from the oven and despaired at what she saw; a tray full of vegetables that she had painstakingly prepared and cut to perfect bite-size pieces; sweet potato, red onion, red pepper, aubergine, courgette. But instead of a nice even roast with maybe a little bit of caramelisation on the edges, half of the pieces had edges that were slightly charred rather than caramelised, while others had gone way beyond caramelised and were decidedly burnt.

With a sudden brainwave, Carla grabbed a pair of scissors from the cutlery drawer and began to snip off the burnt bits, salvaging what she could of the vegetables. While she worked, Carla smiled, proud of herself for even knowing what caramelised vegetables meant. There were some perks to working with a world-class chef, she thought. While she may not be a good cook herself, she at least, thanks to Brendan, had a much broader culinary vocabulary than she had done before.

Brendan. That was it, she thought. Brendan would know how to prepare couscous. She grabbed her phone and made the call.

"Carla?" Brendan's voice, muffled and distant, came through the phone. "What's up?"

"I need your help."

"Can't it wait til the barbeque?"

"No! That'll be too late."

"I'm driving at the moment."

"Listen, Bren," Carla continued, ignoring Brendan's protest. "All I need you to do is tell me how to cook couscous."

"Couscous?"

"Yes, couscous."

"Why do you wanna make couscous?"

"Because I'm making a roasted vegetable and couscous salad for the barbeque."

"You're making a salad?" Brendan couldn't help but laugh.

"Oi!" Carla protested. "It's not funny."

"Yeah, it kinda is," Brendan replied. "Can't you ask Peter for help?"

"No way am I giving him the satisfaction."

"Oh, I see," Brendan said. "Okay, well, you're going to need one-and-a-half cups of boiling water for each cup of couscous."

* * *

Carla scattered a handful of flaked almonds over her couscous salad and stood back, admiring her handiwork. It was true, she didn't know what some of the ingredients were, like the preserved lemon and the sumac, but thanks to Brendan sneaking them into her while Peter was busy outside, she was now the proud creator of a roasted vegetable and couscous salad, nice and zingy with lime juice, sweet with raisins, spicy with finely sliced birds eye chillies, and fresh with coriander leaves.

Next to the couscous salad was a potato salad, picked up by Brendan on his way past the restaurant. Carla had tried to ugly it up a bit to make it appear as if she could have realistically prepared it herself, but it still looked too gourmet to fool Peter.

The only thing left for her to do was the garden salad. That was easy enough, Carla thought; a bit of chopping and tossing and she was done.

"I don't believe it," Peter said as he approached the kitchen bench, witnessing what he thought to be an unprecedented miracle. "You actually did it."

"Don't sound so surprised. I'm not completely useless in the kitchen."

"I know," Peter said as he wrapped his arms around Carla's waist and, leaning down, kissed her softly at the end of her jawline, near her ear, and down onto her neck. "But your kitchen skills don't have anything to do with food."

"Peter!" Carla tried to wriggle free. "Behave!"

"Anyway," he said, releasing her from his embrace and smacking her gently on the arse as he made his way to the fridge. "I thought I'd make a marinade for the chicken skewers."

"What flavour?"

"Ummm… I was thinking honey and soy? With a bit of garlic and ginger."

"Ooh…" Carla murmured, her mouth watering at the thought. "I like the sound of that."

"Do you really?"

Abandoning the food yet again, Peter snaked his arm around Carla's head and, raking his fingers through her hair, drew her in close to him, and kissed her.

"Knock knock."

"Grandad!" Simon jumped up from the sofa, the first sign of life from him all day, and rushed to where Ken was standing on the threshold of the French doors that led to the stone-flagged terrace, an overnight bag in his hand and a hopeful look on his face.

"Simon!" Ken exclaimed cheerfully, embracing his grandson fondly. "Good to see you."

"Dad?" Peter said, somewhat confused. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, you did say, anytime I wanted to come visit."

"Yeah, of course," Peter stammered. "But you could've given us some warning is all."

"I can always go back home if you don't want me here?"

"Don't be silly, Ken," Carla interjected, hurrying to the door to give Ken a warm kiss on the cheek and relieve him of the burden he carried in his hands. "Come in, you're very welcome."

* * *

"What have we got here, then?" Ken asked as he peered into the containers Peter was lining up by the barbeque.

"Stop changing the subject, dad," Peter said. "Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

"Does there have to be something wrong? Can't I just visit my son and my grandson without being interrogated?"

"Not when it involves a good five hours of last-minute driving," Peter said, looking expectantly at his father but, when Ken stubbornly refused to answer, changed tack. "Right, we've got chicken skewers in a soy and honey marinade, pork and fennel sausages, porterhouse steaks basted with chimichurri sauce, vegetable and halloumi skewers, and grilled aubergine steaks with a smokey barbeque glaze. Now it's your turn. Dad, why are you here?"

"Alright," Ken sighed as he prepared to make his confession. "It's Claudia."

"Claudia?" Peter shook his head, confused.

"Claudia Colby," Ken explained. "Friend of Audrey's."

"Oh," Peter said. "The one with the hair?"

"Claudia happens to have lovely hair, I –"

"Dad, I was joking, go on."

"You see, me and Claudia –"

"Ooh, there's a you and Claudia, is there?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, there is," Ken said, a hint of defiance in his voice. "Claudia is my girlfriend."

"Your girlfriend? You've got a girlfriend? Wait til I tell Carla about this."

"Peter!" Ken said angrily. "This isn't a joke."

"Sorry dad. So…" Peter couldn't help but smirk. "Tell me, why are you running away from your girlfriend?"

"Don't get me wrong, Claudia's great company. It's just that… let's just say she has a very big personality. And it does tend to fill up the house, so there's no room left for…"

"For…?"

"Memories," Ken said sadly. "Deirdre."

"Oh, I see."

* * *

"Did you get anything outta your dad?" Carla asked Peter as she momentarily broke away from her guests that were milling around in small groups on the terrace, enjoying the early summer south-coast sun.

"Get this," Peter said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "He's having girlfriend troubles."

"Girlfriend!" Carla exclaimed.

"Ssshhhh!" Peter hissed.

"Sorry," Carla lowered her voice. "Since when did he have a girlfriend?"

"Carla!"

Carla recognised the voice instantly; she turned around to see her best friend Bella's nine-year old daughter, Olive, running towards her, a broad smile on her face and a bunch of wildflowers in her hand.

"Hi, darling," Carla greeted Olive, as the girl crashed into her, wrapping her arms around her in a big hug. "Oh, that's a nice welcome. Are they for me?" Carla took the bunch of flowers Olive held out to her. "They're beautiful. Just like you."

"She picked them herself," Bella explained as she approached the pair, giving Carla a friendly peck on the cheek. "That's why we're late."

"Yeah, right," Carla scoffed. "I know what you're like, you probably changed your outfit half a dozen times before settling on this stunning as usual look!"

"Me?" Bella said with a cheeky grin. "Never!"

"Have you forgotten someone?" Carla asked, looking towards the front of the house. "Where's Felix?"

"Oh, that boy," Bella shook her head. "He's obsessed with his games thingy, what's it called?"

"Nintendo," Olive helpfully interjected.

"Thank you, darling," Bella smiled at her daughter. "Can you go and get your brother?"

"Can Carla come with me?"

"I don't know," Bella shrugged, looking at Carla with a twinkle in her eye. "Can Carla go with her?"

"Of course I can," Carla grinned conspiratorially at Olive, who grinned back at her idol. "Ken!" she called out to her father-in-law. "Come here, I want you to meet someone."

"Who's Ken?" Bella asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Peter's dad," Carla explained. "Ken, I'd like you to meet my very good friend, Bella. Bella, this is Ken."

Carla left Ken and Bella to get acquainted while she took Olive's hand in hers and went in search of Felix.

"Carla seems to get along well with your daughter," Ken observed to Bella.

"Get along well?" Bella laughed. "That's an understatement. Olive adores Carla. Sometimes I think she'd be happy if I just disappeared so Carla could adopt her."

"I'm sure she doesn't," Ken chuckled awkwardly. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Bella said as she linked arms with Ken and walked him towards the makeshift bar area. "Now, I want to hear all the goss on that gorgeous son of yours."

* * *

"Felix!" Olive called out to her thirteen-year-old brother who was stood slumped back against the car, Nintendo in his hand. "Mum's looking for you."

"She didn't look too hard, did she?" Felix shot back without looking up from his game. "I've been here the whole time."

"Hi, Felix," Carla greeted him kindly. "Did you want to come inside and I'll fix you a drink?"

"What have you got?" Felix peered up at her expectantly.

"Umm… Orange juice, lemonade –"

"Coke?"

"Yeah, we've got Coke."

"Okay," Felix agreed, pushing himself off the car and following Carla and Olive towards the house.

"There's someone I want you to meet as well," Carla said. "Simon. He's Peter's son. You remember Peter, don't you? From when he stayed with me that time?"

"He's the drunk, isn't he?"

"Felix! Don't ever say that," Carla admonished him. "He's in recovery."

"Same thing."

"Hmm, well, Peter and Simon are living here now."

"And you thought because we're both teenage boys we'll automatically be friends?"

"Well you've got the same attitude," Carla observed sarcastically. "So that's a good start."

* * *

"Hey," Simon greeted Felix in a monotone, receiving little more than a grunt in reply as the younger boy eyed Simon warily.

"Here you go," Carla said cheerfully as she placed a glass of Coke on the coffee table in front of the two boys. "I see you two have got acquainted."

Carla glanced from Simon to Felix, silently willing them to talk to each other, hell, even to make eye contact would be a start.

"Why don't you show Felix one of your games, Si?" Carla suggested. "Right? Okay, I'll leave you to it."

Looking back at them from the French doors, Carla watched on hopefully as Felix and Simon struck up their version of a friendship.

"You played Mario Kart before?" Simon asked.

"Yeah," Felix nodded, pulling out his portable Nintendo. "Got it on here."

"Oh, wow," Simon enthused, eagerly accepting the proffered handheld games system, Felix' pride and joy. "Is this?"

"This year's model, yeah."

* * *

"I forgot how exhausting hosting a party can be," Carla sighed as she wrapped her arms around Peter and rested her head on his shoulder, a moment of respite from the constant small-talk, the handing out of drinks, trays of snacks, the half-finished conversations.

"Everyone seems to be having a good time though," Peter observed as he ran his hands lightly up and down Carla's back, kissing her softly on the top of her head.

"Mmm…" Carla murmured her agreement. "Even the boys have moved on from speaking in grunts."

A raucous peal of laughter drew their attention to where Bella was monopolising Ken's attention.

"I think your dad might need rescuing," Carla said, cringing slightly as her drunk friend draped herself over Ken while Ken, too polite to say anything, looked as if he wanted to disappear.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "Listen, why don't I call a taxi for her. The kids can stay with us tonight while she sleeps it off."

"Thank you," Carla said, kissing Peter softly on the lips before tearing herself away from him to rescue, she wasn't sure who needed rescuing the most; Bella or Ken.

"Hi, darlin'," Carla spoke softly to Bella. "How you feeling?"

"Hey, Kenny," Bella slurred, pressing her body into Ken's. "Why don't you tell Carla how I'm feeling."

'Sorry,' Carla mouthed silently to Ken before focusing on Bella. "Let's go inside, yeah? Peter's calling a taxi for you."

"No!" Bella exclaimed angrily. "I'm talking to my new friend here. My man, my Kenny."

"And I was just telling Bella here," Ken said. "About my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend!" Bella scoffed. "What girlfriend?"

"Her name is –"

"Where is she then?" Bella continued, ignoring Ken. "This girlfriend of yours?"

"She's right here."

All three spun around to see Claudia Colby, the strikingly elegant redhead, a light shawl draped across her shoulder, revealing a loosely fitted teal silk blouse underneath and tailored cream trousers to complete the outfit.

"Claudia!" Ken exclaimed, immediately disentangling himself from Bella. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I think it's me who should be asking that question. Don't you?"

"Ugh," Bella moaned as she lurched towards Carla. "I don't feel good."

"It's okay, darlin'," Carla comforted her with a steadying arm. "Let's get you inside."

"No," Bella protested. "Home. I wanna go home."

"Okay," Carla nodded. "We'll wait out front for the taxi, yeah?"

"Yeah," Bella agreed.

"Felix and Olive can stay with us tonight," Carla explained to her friend as she guided her around the side of the house. "You can pick them up in the morning when you're feeling a little… more like yourself."

_Beep beep_

"That'll be the taxi, come on."

Bella leaned heavily on Carla as she walked blindly, her feet stumbling forward, one after the other, her eyes unseeing, relying on her friend to guide her.

"Well, well, well," the taxi driver said as the two women appeared from the side of the house. "So this is where you've been hiding."

Bella stopped in her tracks and stared at the man; a tallish man, just over six foot, handsome, despite or perhaps because of the grey around his temples, slim, fit, with a slight podgy belly, clear evidence of his enjoyment of a pint or two in his local of an evening.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she sneered at him, her hands clenching unconsciously into fists, her body becoming rigid.

"What's going on?" Peter asked as he jogged towards the trio on the driveway. "Is everything alright?"

"Him!" Bella shouted, pointing at the taxi driver. "He's what's going on! What are you doing here?"

"I was booked for a job," the man explained. "I'm here to pick someone up."

"That would be me, you idiot," Bella spat at him.

"Well then," the man opened the taxi door and grinned at Bella, ignoring her hostility. "Does madam care to take a seat."

"Oh, piss off!" Bella yelled at him. "I would rather walk to the ends of the earth than accept a lift from you. You're scum!"

"Now now," he chastised her. "Is that any way to speak to your husband?"

"You're no husband of mine! You're evil!"

Unable to control herself any longer, Bella lunged at him, pounding her fists on his torso, scratching at his face, her fury enraged further by his calm and composed reaction; far from fighting back, he merely laughed at her.

Peter rushed in and, grabbing Bella by the waist, dragged her away from this man who was claiming to be her husband.

"I hate you!" she screamed at him as she struggled against Peter's hold on her. "I hate you! I wish you were dead!"

"Bella, stop it," Carla warned her. "Not now."

"Why not? You have no idea what he…"

The words faded on Bella's lips as she noticed the party guests gathered at the edge of the grass, watching the altercation. Not that she cared about any of them. All she cared about were her children, Felix and Olive. Her children who were stood there staring at their mum, their eyes full of unasked questions and unshed tears.

She wasn't the only one who had spotted them. Carla glanced back at the taxi driver as he stepped forward, a smile on his face, his arms outstretched in greeting.

"Hey kids, it's your dad."


End file.
